


Wild Child

by Billywick



Category: Darksiders (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, Multi, pre-fall of the Nephilim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 07:19:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10804446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Billywick/pseuds/Billywick
Summary: Between the carnage of the Nephilim's onslaught, Death discovers a mere child, vicious and lost. Little did he know he had just found the brother who would be at his side in an apocalyptic future.[Pre-Fall of the Nephilim. Liberal headcanons used]





	1. Chapter 1

The battle was won, their enemies, an unsuspecting but not defenseless race of ancient beings, slaughtered on the very fields they sought to protect. Their sacrifice was in vain, their houses and grand structures burning or sinking into the ground, never to be heard from again. The Abyss was a kinder fate than death at the hands of the Nephilim.  Endless red pooled, no, flooded the ground, turned what had once been a fertile land into a slaughter fest. And the Nephilim celebrated their victory. Not here, among the bodies of the fallen, the innocent resting alongside their warriors as Nephilim hands slayed every life they came across.

They drank and cheered and brawled with each other, enjoying the spoils of their victory and the merriment of a glorious crusade, a scorched path of destruction across the firmament of Creation.

But there was one who did not cheer, who raised no wine or mead or whichever blood his kin chose to drink. One who walked among the fallen. Not a priest or man of spirituality, no, he knew the Creator, if he was not gone, had abandoned their Creation a long, long time ago. No, he did mourn or beg the spirits to forgive the ferocity of his kin, a ferocity he refined and turned into art.

His name is Death. He is one of the Firstborn, the highest and oldest generation of Nephilim. And the strongest.

 

Death strides through the sea of bodies, few are Nephilim. Sixth or seventh generation, young, boisterous fools who lacked care in battle and were no loss to be cared for.  But something compelled Death to do more than take numbers into account and scour for crafts and magics of interest. Something bright in the sea of red. Only a few paces away, he halted, for he’d seen what drew him to the center.

A child. Not of the now extinct race, but Nephilim. At least, that would be the logical conclusion.

The child looked like an angel. Hair as bright as the stars and eyes that shone with the cold strength of the moon. And yet, there were no wings and the child, a boy, sat by two dead Nephilim.

 

The boy didn’t notice Death’s approach, he just sat there, staring grimly into another direction, obviously lost in thoughts.   
A child on the battlefield did not occur seldomly, it was rather usual for parents to take their spawn. And really, where else were they supposed to put them?   
The Nephilim were a race of slaughter and death, they lived on the battlefields or close to them and they wandered through the realms, slaughtering and rampaging.   
There simply was no place a child would be safer than close to its parents because no one ever stayed behind once the Nephilim went into battle.   
Of course, most of the pairs that had offspring chose to stay behind for their children’s safety, but that didn’t mean they did not encounter enemies or held themselves back.

  
One could tell from the place where the young boy was sitting that his parents had not stayed behind and instead joined battle at the front lines.   
  
How or why this child had survived... it should forever be a mystery.   
  
The boy didn’t seem to mourn his parents, no, in fact he seemed annoyed the way he was sitting on his father’s armour, back to his mother.   
  
Then, something cracked next to him and the boy’s head whipped around. His bright eyes grew wide as he saw Death and even wider when he spotted the symbol cut into the Nephilim’s shoulder, giving him away as one of the Firstborn.   
  
Even at his young age, the boy knew what this meant.   
  
Nephilim were not known to support weak ones, except for their own offspring. Sick ones, weak ones, young ones... ones that could not care for themselves alone as long as they had no one to protect them were killed to spare them a more cruel death of starving, tortured by enemies or being ripped apart by other creatures.   
  
Swiftly enough, the boy was on his feet, his hands around the shaft of his father’s sword. The thing was two times as tall as the boy and not even a big sword, but for a little guy like him, it definitely was.   
  
“One step closer and I’ll carve your guts out!” the boy spat. The knuckles of his little hands went white with effort as he grabbed the sword tighter and finally managed to lift it, point-first at Death.   
His arms were trembling, from fear or from his muscles protesting no one knew, but he kept holding it up, expression incredibly grim.   
  


Death had indeed meant to cut the little one’s life short, to spare him the cruelty of a life without the protection of his parents. Nephilim were not a merciful or even kind race and what Death had been about to do was considered a great favour.   And yet, he halted, Harvester in hand, face curious. No Nephilim child was oblivious to his status, they knew by the sigil on his arm and the strength of his presence that he was their elder, their superior, a Firstborn. Though surrendering would be distasteful and a dishonour, children seldom braved the foolishness of defending themselves against adults. Most would bow their heads, perhaps shed tears for a life so unfulfilled and ended.

But not this one. The fighting spirit of his race pulsed through the veins of this child, his eyes grim and savage, his grip, although the sword was much too heavy for him, determined. There was no way he could make good on his threat, most Nephilim would have cowered away from issuing such words to Death. It was a sure way to find out why he was so aptly named.

“will you now?” Harvester was planted into the ground, the scythe’s blade glinting in the murky evening light as Death stood before the child.

“Do you know who I am, child?”

  
  
Still, the boy held the sword high although it was obvious the trembling in his arms originated from his muscles protesting.   
He managed to sneer at Death, even in his state.   
  
“You’re a Firstborn!” the little one growled, “But do not think that frightens me!” 

A pause, then he added, obviously to underline how serious he was, “Damn you!”   
  
The boy’s eyes darted over to the scythe and for a moment he looked as if he marvelled at the weapon as well as he feared it, then quickly back to Death.    
“Go on, leave me alone! I won’t...” the sword finally was too heavy for him and his arms slacked, but only for a moment before he seemed to gather his wit again and force his arms back up, trembling even more than before, “I won’t get you in trouble if you leave me be!”

 

The sword that wouldn’t have hurt him even if swung by a full grown Nephilim was trembling and dancing in front of him, the point barely reaching his thigh. Death stood silent for a few heartbeats, before he chuckled. He really wanted to laugh quite loudly at this kid’s audacity and stubborn expression, but there was something admirable in the way he held the weapon and glowered at Death as if he might frighten away the infinitely more powerful being.

“You won’t get me in trouble, is that so?” another chuckle, then Death gripped the sword in his hand, lifting the blade and with it, the tiny Nephilim on the other end who would not let go.

“Were you given a name, little one?”

  
  
The boy’s eyes grew incredibly wide as he was lifted up and he looked as if he was close to pee himself for a second, then he finally remembered that he was trying to convince Death he was a fearsome warrior he should better leave alone than fight and began to struggle.   
Wriggling his little feet and trying to kick the Firstborn, the boy held onto the blade’s shaft as if he was clinging to his life. Which in a way, he was.   
  
“Yes, I will crush you and all your children! I will rip out their spines and carve out their beating hearts. And then I will break all their bones!! Let me go!!!”   
He still hung there, glaring at Death, obviously humiliated by the ease with which the old Nephilim handled him around.   
  
“No! My parents were too  _ busy _ being  _ slaughtered _ .”   
He said that with no little amount of despise in his young voice. 

 

The threats might have offended him more if they weren’t coming from all of three feet of Nephilim. Who was currently hanging from the handle of a sword and trying to reach any part of Death with his tiny, iron-clad feet.  Another chuckle escaped his lips before he contemplated the fate of the feisty little thing. It would be a shame to kill something with so much spirit, so much fierce determination to live despite the circumstances. 

“Then choose yourself a name, little one.”

  
He reached forward to grab the child by the cloth on his back and easily parted him from the blade, transferring him to sit upon one broad shoulder, ignoring any attempt to kick him further. 

 

The tiny Nephilim looked around, bright eyes wandering over the battlefield, taking in the whole excess of the slaughter that had occurred here and said with a grim tone to his voice, “War.”   
  


Death did hand the sword back to the child though and pulled Harvester free of the Earth.

  
“Then your name shall be War, from now on. I am Death, and you are my brother. Remember that well, War.”   
  
That silenced the kid instantly. Of Death he had heard. His parents had mentioned him, often, and they too had whispered about his strength surpassing even that of Absalom, the one first created.   
  
This was Death, the Firstborn, Death who had created the Grand Abominations, Death who was said to have killed more than their leader, Death who had no family and preferred being left alone, Death who didn’t celebrate victories. Death who was one of the most feared beings amongst the Nephilim and the Nephilim didn’t fear many. He was Death’s little brother now. 

  
  
And his name was War.   



	2. Chapter 2

“Are you being a coward again,  _ Angel Boy _ ?”   
  
Now that had him stop his steps and stand entirely still. Cackling could be heard from behind him. “Just because your big brother isn’t here, awww... You’re always so brave when he’s around because you know he’s there to save your ass if you fail again. But not this time, you can’t run into his arms and cry when we mess you up because he’s left!”   
  
At least that was the truth. Death was on a quest, for a long time now, scouting the next realm to conquer. Usually, the Firstborn would sent a squad of lower born and laze around themselves, but not Death. He wanted to see for himself.   
  
The rest they said? Bullshit.   
  
War did not cry, neither did he run to Death for help. Not once had the Firstborn interfered when his little brother was drawn into a brawl. Or drew himself in, which in fact covered most of the cases.   
  
He waited, until they were stupid enough to come closer. There were six of them, two his age, the other four older. Some in the background that only liked to watch and enjoy the spectacle. When War would be done with them though, even those would regret looking.   
  
The taunting continued, but he stood still and waited for the perfect moment. Death was a rough teacher and War’s skin bore no small amount of scars already, but he was also a good teacher. Which showed in situations like these.   
  
Not that War would ever not let a taunt like this get to him, especially if it contained the term ‘angel’ directed at him.   
But he knew by now how to channel his anger to wreak more havoc on them than they expected.   
  
As the other young one was close enough, War’s fist met the boy’s jaw with the force of a freight train. It sent him flying, but that wasn’t enough. Death’s little brother grabbed the other’s legs while he was still flying, hauled him over his own head and slammed him, face-first, mind you, into the dirt.    
  
it took only one second for the others to join in and soon enough the brawl was raging on one of the main pathways they had between tents and little houses and whatever their camp consisted of at the moment.

 

The mission he’d given himself was long but not terribly strenuous. Death enjoyed solitude, immensely so, especially considering how large the legion of Nephilim under his command was. They didn’t draw him into their gatherings or celebrations, but he could not avoid social contact, being their leader.

So he thoroughly enjoyed it when he could get away from time to time and just be alone with Creation and his own thoughts. And they were not of slaughter and destruction, not anymore.  The only regret he had was leaving his little brother behind. War was a capricious child, eager to fight and test his strength, determined and stubborn in the harsh training bestowed upon him by his brother. But never ungrateful. There was something far more rewarding about seeing War develop his fighting ability than any kill he’d ever made. 

And he was grateful to himself for having chosen wisely on the field that day. War brought him companionship and contentment. When he was younger and not so ardent to threaten Death (he really hadn’t, not since he’d been named and ‘adopted’), the little Nephilim would fall asleep, curled against or on Death, as if his presence alone meant safety to the child. And Death had felt, for the first time in his life, how it felt to care for someone.

Yes, he cared for War, as much as any ‘real’ brother might.

 

Which was why he was returning so eagerly from his mission now, strolling towards the bone-decorated hut they both resided in. 

Nephilim cleared his path, peeling away from a large circle. By the noise from the center of it, Death would guess it to a brawl. And if there was a brawl, he was sure he knew who he’d find at the center of it all.  By the time Death stood before the small knot of fighting youngsters, the spectators had cleared away entirely.  Or rather they were casually busying themselves with other things so they wouldn’t draw any attention.   
  
The brawl though raged on. Four youngsters were already laying on the ground, knocked out with their faces bloody and some parts of them looking weirdly twisted.  War though was still fighting five more, almost all teaming up on him, especially because he was the most skilled of them and the greatest danger. A tactic that practically ran in Nephilim blood. Kill the strong ones first, then feast on the suffering of the weaker ones.   
  
It took War a while until he noticed who had returned and as soon as he was aware of his brother, doubled his efforts.   
His movements  instantly became swifter and less frantic as he tactically broke bones, crushed noses and let his already blood-covered fists meet his opponents’ bodies.   
  
As if he wanted to demonstrate to his brother just how good of a fighter he was.   
When War changed his way of fighting, instead of simply punching now  precisely  _ disabling, _ his opponents’ expression changed to horror. War’s expression turned into a smirk.   
  
“Weaklings,” he growled and headbutted the last one out cold.   
  
Only then he seemed to realize that there was blood dripping from his own nose. His skin was split in several places and he bore countless bruises.

  
  
One hand wiping at his ever-bleeding nose, he turned to his brother.    
“You’re back just in time. I cleaned up the front garden.” He made a derogative flick of his hand into the unconscious Nephilims’ direction.

 

Death had no words of praise for his little prodigy. He simply expected War to be better than the rest of the youngsters, because he learned from him. Death had never taught anyone or taken an apprentice, so War’s prowess and privilege inspired much jealousy among the Nephilim serving under Death.  Not that War had need to rise to their lowly taunts. He did so anyway, nearly always sporting some mark of his victory. A bloody nose, a broken finger or knuckle, maybe even a patch of bruised skin or missing, silvery hair. It was a never-ending struggle that Death had come to terms with. There was no taming or subduing War’s nature and really, he’d be foolish to try and shape a more refined warrior of the young Nephilim. He excelled at his strengths, above and beyond the talents of the Nephilim of his generation.

 

“If you dedicate as much time to crafting as to senseless quarreling, you would be a master maker already, War.”   
  
“But I am no Maker, I’m a Nephilim.” War answered with no little amount of pride in his voice, “Battle is what I was born for.”   
He stretched a little, then wiped his nose one last time.   
“Besides, I’m not a coward who has to hide behind you and they always seem so set on a little demonstration of that.”   
  
They entered the little hut and as soon as the door closed, War’s expression softened a little. He went to search around a boney cupboard and produced a bottle and a mug from it. A few moments, and Death was offered the drink and as soon as the older had sat down, War was on him, fingers easily working open the buckles and straps of leather that held together the Firstborn’s armour.   
  
“Pray tell, what did you see, brother?” War asked, eager to hear glorious stories about the new land they would soon claim, the new race they would annihilate.

 

“Indeed you are a Nephilim. Always thirsting for new lives to end,” Death answered, raising the mug to his lips and emptying it in one. He accepted War’s partial servitude gratefully, it had been a long journey and he was weary, yet he knew there were dozens of Nephilim ‘officers’ that eagerly expected his word. Death was far more inclined to share the knowledge with War though.

“It is a mighty world that we have set our sights upon. The people are strong, a proud race of Old Ones. They are not unlike demons, their world is a ghastly, yet rich one. You will like them. Great, horned beasts who seem to enjoy senseless brawling as much as any Nephilim.”

He gave a delighted sigh as the heavy shoulder guards slid from his body. Armour was a pain to deal with. Perhaps his next craft should be something that would carry him from realm to realm.

  
War took it upon himself to carry the shoulder guards to where his brother kept his armour and came back immediately after.   
  
The story of the mighty world and its inhabitants inspired him to great fantasies of him slaying those beasts at his brother’s side.   
“I cannot wait!” he exclaimed, eyes blazing with excitement and bloodthirst, “Will you let me finally battle at the front line?”   
  
That he would join the battle was out of question, every Nephilim joined. Always. Where was an entirely different matter.   
  
While families and older, more experienced ones covered the ranks further back, the young ones were usually at the front line to kill as many enemies as possible in order to earn themselves a name amongst their kin.   
Also, the first row was cannon fodder and thus a really effective way of selecting only the strong ones for survival.  Ever since he had grown from a child to a young man, War had wanted to fight there. And never even once had Death allowed it.

 

Death held serious doubts about the way in which the Nephilim raised their young ever since he’d picked up War as his chosen family. He saw little sense in sending the young and inexperienced fighters to the very front, much like wasting rows and rows of raw material when crafting. It was senseless to claim it was for their learning benefit. The only thing you learned on the frontlines was how to quickly get past cannons without aiding your brother beside you. And while Death never fought with anyone at his side willingly, he could not approve of letting War become nothing but a shield for the older generation. The young were supposed to continue their race, to further the Nephilim and broaden their horizon of glory. And yet, somehow, it was the oldest who were protected, the Firstborn most of all. Even though with their near impenetrable flesh and resilient life-force, needed it least of all. 

Ideally, Death would have the Firstborn at the head of every Nephilim army, to break down the first enemy lines and let their kin swarm out to do the tedious work. But Death was, despite his age, not the oldest, and not the leader of their kind. That fell to Absalom, who’s dominance was only loosely established simply because no one dared challenge him for it anymore. Too many Firstborn had been lost to time already, they numbered at a sparse forty and dwindled with every battle. 

All the more reason to take better care of their young.

“No. You will be in the vanguard,” he saw War’s wilting expression and lifted a hand, continued speaking to appease him, “or the middle lines. Not at the front.”

 

“Brother!” War’s voice was angry. “I’m supposed to fight at the front lines! I’m not a coward, I won’t hide away  _ again _ !”   
  
But Death’s expression didn’t change. the younger saw he wouldn’t get anywhere with his brother being all stubborn like that.   
War growled, then got up, walking to the door.   
  
“I won’t let you treat me like a child anymore!”   
  
The door slammed shut behind him.   
  



	3. Chapter 3

He could see confusion in his brother’s eyes for a moment as Death entered and saw him stand there next to their leader. 

  
And then the older Nephilim’s eyes narrowed as he understood why he had been summoned to talk to Absalom. An ambush. He'd been betrayed by his own little brother.   
  
“Death,” the first Nephilim said, shaking his head lightly in a mocking way, “You know the rules. Even this boy knows the rules. Every child knows the rules. And everyone except you lives after them. Why do you have to make an exception? Even parents don’t make exceptions for their offspring. And yet here you are, denying the boy his right to earn himself a name?”

 

“He has a name,” Death was careful, but there was fury in the embers of his orange glare. War had gone behind his back, forsaken his authority and consulted Absalom. It was an insult to think Death stood at Absalom’s command. He did not. He merely accepted him in place of a better leader.

“He named himself. And it is quite fitting. War.” Death’s gaze lingered on his little brother, and there was very clear betrayal in the creases of his frown.

“He is not for the front lines. It was none of your concern how I lead my Nephilim before, Absalom. Why care now?”

  
  
“Because the boy,” and here he said it again on purpose, “Needs to learn how to fight without you watching his back all the time.”   
  
War couldn’t look back at his brother. He already felt shame for having consulted Absalom, in the knowledge his brother despised his ‘qualities’ as a leader.   
  
“He is going to fight at the front lines, Death. And you won’t keep him from that.”

Absalom's verdict was final and beyond defiance. Even Death yielded his will to the First.  
  
  
The mood was more than frosty as they left. Neither of them spoke, nor did they see each other very often during the following days and even during the march that followed to reach the new realm.   
  
War was self-confident enough to still be of the opinion his decision had been painful and a betrayal, yes, but a necessary evil in order to make his brother let go off him.   
  
He didn’t need a Firstborn as his nanny, especially not in battle.

 

Death certainly took no steps to shepherd his little brother any more. He hadn’t really in the past, but he understood now that War mistook his care for lack of trust in his abilities. It wasn’t that. It was never that. Death simply...needed a little longer. Needed his brother’s company just a little bit longer, until he could safely assume his brother, that tiny, feisty child he once found, truly had every capability and skill to live. 

And maybe, Death didn’t want to let go of him at all.

Nephilim held little value and respect for bonds. Parents expected their children to grow old enough to fight on their own, and then they were for all intent and purpose, abandoned. They no longer lived in their parents’ immediate presence, held no special bond with them on the battlefield other than possibly allowing a mild form of co-operation. Siblings tended to keep the strongest bonds, as they often developed fighting techniques together and found teamwork to their advantage.

But he and War, they would be parted, forever more if War did not survive his first time at the front.

 

Death seldom trudged behind his mass of troops and did no such thing on this march either.    
  
They crossed the borders soon enough and were greeted with a huge army of the beasts Death had described beforehand.   
It was almost as if they had expected them, war-hungry as they were, too.   
  
From then on it was only a question of mere minutes until the armies clashed. Nephilim, even though they had their Firstborn as leaders, weren’t really an army that was led from some higher position. They just attacked like a force of nature, except that their slaughtering had nothing to do with nature anymore.   
It was gruesome and sickening, if you paid attention, but no one really did, except for each and every warrior battling for himself and his own survival and of course, for the kills.   
  
War enjoyed his front-line experience. He got to slaughter the biggest beasts and collected kills like no one of his age did.   
many fell at his sword, but more fell at his side. Not that he cared. But soon enough, there were too little young Nephilim around him and the beasts concentrated on the ones that were still battling and had not died or wisely retreated.

  
Such as War.   
Who was cutting off limbs like mad, swinging the sword around and high over his head to kill.   
  
And then something _ impaled _ him from behind, right into his gut sinking deep into the flesh. He was lifted up and through his own weight pushed further down the horn in his back. With his eyes wide in disbelief, War witnessed his own skin bulge before the horn broke through, covered in blood.   
  
Pain shot up his spine, or what was left of it only then and War couldn’t help but scream.

 

The battle raged, bloody, cruel and chaotic around him. Death made an art of killing, hopping over fallen bodies with grace, Harvester twisting and changing shape as his wielder required. He was nowhere near the frontlines anymore, having fought his way back and leaving a trail, a wide trail for his brethren to use into the enemy. The front lines were behind the majority of the Nephilim army now and those still battling there would fall prey to the regrouping, angry native race.

And that was where War was bound to be.

 

Death, once his kin were well and truly overwhelming the enemy from behind after pouring through the large gap he’d cut, doubled back, having no patience to wait until the battle was over. War’s life concerned him very, very deeply.

He heard him before he saw, and what he heard required no sight to paint a horrific image into his mind. Death looked anyway. With his little brother’s blood-curdling scream of pain in his ears, Harvester flew to action in the hand of his wielder.  Death did not dare rest his eyes on War until the last beast had fallen to his blade, which had been the one that ran War through with his horns. Death severed the creature’s head from its body and took one last, cautious look around, before he knelt by War’s side.

 

War’s face was contorted in an expression of utter agony, his hands were trembling and carefully wandering along his body until they found the gaping hole through his stomach region.   
He quickly retreated them and gave a moan in pain.   
  
His eyes opened and he managed to regard his brother.   
“You...” War grimaced, it hurt to speak, “You were... right.. I.... Let... let me die here, Death. I.. don’t deserve to live after this.”

 

The elder Nephilim looked down at his wounded brother. By their unspoken laws, War was dead to him. He should leave him to die in dignity, so that no one would remember him broken and weak.  But Death could not see a corpse with his brother’s face. No, he would not see him die here, he would not lose War so easily.  He wasn’t much of a healer, but the Nephilim did have some among their numbers. Being wounded was no sign of weakness, as long it wasn’t fatal.

“No. You will not die like this.” The Firstborn had no easy task, scooping War up in a manner he could carry the almost fully grown Nephilim, but somehow he managed, taking him on his back with Harvester clutched beneath his arm.

“I decide when you die. And it is not here. And not now.”   
  
By the time Death had him on his back, carrying him, War was already too weak to speak.   
He clung to his brother on pure instinct.   
  


It felt like an eternity passed.

  
  
His eyes opened.    
And stared at a familiar ceiling made out of bones. Immediately, War sat up. The battle, his kills, the horn, his brother...   
His wound.   
  
It was dark in their little home (where were they even? How long had he been asleep?), but from outside shone the light of fire and War could hear voices.   
Sounded like a feast. 

His hands came up to touch his stomach but there was nothing, nothing at all. Not even a scar.  Where was his brother?   
War got up and managed to find some pants, a shirt and his scarf to clothe himself.  After that he left their home in search for his brother.

He frowned when he stepped out into the night air. It smelled weird. A quick glance around and War was sure they were still camping in that land they had just conquered.  But he hadn’t only slept a night, his wounds didn’t heal that fast or did they?  War looked around again.  There was something off still. The fire a hundred meters away from him was huge and its light held a weird attraction to War. Before he noticed, he had started walking.   
  
It took a while until he noticed he was not alone on his way.   
When he got closer, there were Nephilim everywhere, on the ground, against some wall or stone, moaning and swearing and moving; the entirety of it painting an obscene picture to War and he wondered what by Oblivion had happened to them.  Were they under a spell??   
  
And where was his brother?   
  
On his way, War found some of the young ones he usually brawled with had gotten themselves a partner and were going at it as well.   
  


Death would have to explain this obscenity to him, that was for sure.   
If he ever found him.

  
Closer to the fire, Nephilim were still drinking and partying, but they too seemed to be eager to engage in body-to-body-combat as well. War witnessed a pair fighting each other, the female even broke the male’s arms before she mounted him like some battle steed...

War looked away, face grim and looking annoyed.   
  
What was happening?   
  
War had slept a very long time, his body demanding the chance to heal itself with a little aid. Of course, Death had taken care of him. Aside from the one healer, no one knew of War’s shameful injury and if the Firstborn had anything to say about it, they never would. War’s life was dear and important to him and he’d be damned before he let his little brother slip away on account of one foolish mistake.

 

Right now, the pale Nephilim was in a meeting of sorts with three other Firstborn and Absalom. It was that time of the year when the other realms breathed a relieved sigh as the Nephilim threat ground to a halt, to replenish their ranks and enjoy the spoils of their victory.  Nephilim mating was as harsh and arduous an affair as their battling, with little shame or tact. They fucked wherever they pleased, with no regard to rank or spectators. Even the Firstborn could include themselves in the unsavoury rush and few of them abstained from it.

Which was why two of the five in the meeting were shifting and glancing around, despite the gravity of the discussion.

 

“Eden should be ours. Man has no right to such a dwelling. Only the victors decide on such matters. We will take it.”

 

Death looked over his shoulder at the bright fires and somewhere lurking in the shadows, his hut. His thoughts lingered on War for a moment, then returned to the dilemma at hand.

“What of Heaven? They will stand in our way. As will the Charred Council. The Third Kingdom is not unprotected.”

 

“No matter!” Absalom snarled, displeased to hear Death’s objections, “it is ours for the taking and we will crush whatever stands before us.”

  
  
Finally, War managed to ignore his surroundings and the general sultry mood and follow this faint feeling that always connected him with his brother, some weird sixth sense he couldn’t yet explain fully.   
  
It led him to a little plateau not all that far from the fire but definitely a good distance away. And there, together with some of the other Firstborn, his brother resided, obviously in a discussion with Absalom.   
War was eager to stride over and ask what was going on, but instead he hid away in the shadows. It was a weird urge and even weirder when he noticed his eyes were wandering, resting on his brother’s muscular back for a moment. Suddenly, his head was full of... images and his fingers began to tickle and War knew they would not stop until he pressed them on Death’s pale skin.

  
He had never felt such a thing before, such heat creep into him and fill him completely until he thought he was on fire as well. And the worst thing about it that he didn’t picture himself fighting and then claiming some nameless Nephilim, but instead it was Death he fought and it was Death who claimed him after in a way similar to what he had seen on his way here.   
  
War cursed quietly. Did that weird event whatever it was affect him now as well? If so, he was probably better off hiding it damn well!   
  
He stepped out of the shadow.   
  
Absalom’s eyes landed on him.   
“The boy woke up it seems,” he told Death.

 

Death had felt War’s lingering presence in the back of his mind, but he’d been so watchful of his brother’s life in the recent days he’d grown adjusted to the constant ‘nagging’ behind all of his thoughts.

He turned slowly as Absalom spoke and no emotion betrayed his features. He allowed himself one long, sweeping glance at his brother, then stood.

“It bodes ill to continue this conversation at a time like this. We will not be moving for another week now that it’s begun, so consider my words wisely, Absalom. You would be a fool not to.”

 

Absalom grimaced at his insolence, but Death cared little for his ‘leader’ and instead crossed the small space parting him from his recovered brother.

 

“War. It is good to see you back to strength. I was beginning to think I would have to carry you to our next battleground.”

  
  
It was even worse when Death was closer to him, War noticed. He almost forgot Death had said something and when he remembered, he had forgotten what it was.

“What?” Ah, carry to next battleground.  “Certainly not!”

War tried to recover, but the damage was done and Death’s eyebrows raised. Instead of waiting until his brother said something, War went ahead and asked, “What is all this?” He made a gesture, “There are... _ coupling _ everywhere! Like lusty demons! What is happening? How long did I sleep?”

 

The change of topic had Death frown, then raise his lips in a shadow of a smirk at his brother’s frustrated tone. He’d always been careful to keep his little brother occupied and well un-informed of the Nephilim’s rough couplings. Simply because he never deemed it important. War would figure that part out when he was ready and it did nothing to fill his head with thoughts of it whilst he could be learning advanced combat and slight magics.

“This is the first time you’ve taken notice of it, hm? You’ve been asleep for eight days, healing your injury. We will be stationary for a while, this takes about two weeks to wear off.”

  
  
“What do you mean, first notice? This has happened before?” War was shocked and you could see it on him. As they went back to their home, he tried distinctly to ignore the couples around them. “This is obscene..!”, he commented as soon as they were in their own four, bony walls.   
And obscene were the thoughts that haunted him, the mad urges to strip himself naked and beg his brother to....

  
No.   
“I will go to sleep and hope that in the morning it won’t be all that bad,” he announced, but really, that was not what he wanted right now.

  
The situation became even worse when Death began taking off parts of his clothes. War didn’t even notice he was coming closer slowly, trying to stare at every part of his brother’s body at the same time.   
When the older stopped and turned around, War snapped out of it and angrily got himself rid off shirt and scarf.   
He would definitely not sleep naked today.

 

Death knew little of the affliction coursing through the Nephilim camp right now. He was not among those Firstborn that sought out mates to couple with during this time, never felt the urge to impart his flesh onto another and to see new life spring from it. He truly was very aptly named.

“If you feel the need to go outside and join them, indulge it, War. There are few moments of peace among our people. This is one of them.”

He did not notice the hungry stare or the manner in which his brother’s eyes devoured his body. The conversation with Absalom weighed too heavy on his mind to leave room for much else. Not even for War.

  
He laid down on the hard cot, not at all perturbed by the vigorous onslaught of noises from outside. What happened beyond the walls of his humble abode was of no concern of his tonight.   
  
War’s eyes lingered on his brother’s body, before he tore his gaze away and awkwardly stalked over to his sleeping place on the other side of the cot.   
“I don’t wish to go outside,” he muttered.   
  



	4. Chapter 4

It had been going on for a few days now. When War had woken up the next morning, he was greeted with silence. Everyone had returned to their homes, the fire had burned down and it looked as if it was over - until nightfall and then everything happened again.   
The young Nephilim had tried his best to not let it affect him. It wasn’t that he felt the need to mate with some random person he found, he might even have done that if it had been so, no, he desired, even  _ craved _ , his own brother.   
  
War spent his days training and only returned at nightfall, mostly his brother would not be there then which helped to forget about his mad urges.

  
Tonight though, just as War had finished washing himself and was about to go to sleep, Death returned.   
  
He looked... tired, but not worn out. Even though he was covered in blood, wherever it came from, there was still something in the way he held himself that told War his brother was in a splendid mood.   
And that was the end of War’s self-control. Dressed in only his pants, War reached for the next weapon close to him and threw himself at his brother, attacking him frontally. Of course, Death’s reflexes let him parry the blow instantly, but War wasn’t done.    
He refused to let his brother get the better of him, didn’t listen to what he said, just attacked again and again, even when Death disarmed him. He only stopped struggling when the Firstborn had him finally pinned against a wall.   
  
Death shouldn’t even have any questions anymore, War’s expression was enough. One of utter arousal and desperation, the boy really couldn’t help himself anymore it seemed.  The sudden brawl was nothing new, but Death hadn’t expected it nonetheless. Still, his reflexes and centuries of fighting had him dodge and counter before he could even think of a reason for War attacking him.

Once his brother was pinned to the wall, Death had a moment to look at his face. And nearly reeled away from him. War stared at him with absolute hunger and longing, much like those depraved, sex-mad Nephilim outside of the hut chased each other down. And Death suddenly understood why War attacked him.

He almost laughed, but thought better of it just in time. It was not fair to mock War now he was in such a precarious situation and state.

 

“Brother,” he didn’t ask for an explanation as to why War was not outside. It was pride that kept the younger here, pride that would not allow him relief in form of a mating. And that pride was nought in the presence of Death, who had seen much softer shades of War than Creation liked to believe.

“You are not attracted to me, War,” he mildly chastised, “you are just a proud, stubborn fool. Get yourself outside, if you still have the strength. I will not play any more games with you.”

  
  
War’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t believe him?   
Well, then he had to make it clearer. Death’s grip on his wrists loosened and the older Nephilim turned around with a kind of melancholic expression as if he was thinking about how his little War had grown into a young man or something equally weird.  Instead of leaving though, War stripped himself entirely, then took a few steps towards his brother, grabbed his shoulder with a strength that even he didn’t know he had and forced him backwards until they both landed on the hard cot they used to sleep on.   
  
War, now straddling his brother managed to pin him down and leaned over him, “Very wrong, brother,” he said, voice husky and strained from lust, before he crashed their lips together but only for a brief rough kiss, before his hands began travelling as well as his lips, tongue and teeth. While his hands worked open buckles and straps that covered his brother’s body, his teeth nipping on pale skin.   
  
“I don’t want any of those fools outside. I desire  _ you _ .”

 

It was only the surprise that allowed War to maneuver Death in this manner, to send him crashing to the cot with a naked brother mounting him like some glorious steed.  Death found his fingers too stiff to move, his limbs freezing as if he had fallen into a gaping glacier. War was not playing around, his touch was demanding and so foreign compared to what Death knew of him.

War wanted him and he was about to take what he desired if Death would not react. He’d even pressed their mouths together in a violent mockery of affection.

 

When the Firstborn felt the first gust of air and greedy fingers on his stunned member, the game was over. With strength born not of experience, but of an ancient body gifted with such, he heaved War off of him, sent his not-so little, naked brother sprawling on the floor and Harvester flew into his hand. The blade settled on War’s chest and there was nothing affectionate in Death’s gaze anymore. No, the bright embers of his eyes flickered with confusion and shock as he stared down at War.

“Stay down. Until I am gone.” he commanded quietly.

  
  
War sobered quite rapidly, especially with that blade on his chest. He knew Harvester’s might and his brother’s skill with it and Death really didn’t look as if he was joking.

In fact, War had never seen him like this, so shocked and confused.  As Death had ordered him, War stayed where he was, not even getting up after his brother had left.   
He didn’t regret it. He had said the truth and he  _ still  _ desired his brother, even after this obvious rejection.

  
  
Death left rather swiftly, after he’d clad himself in most of his armour. He really needed to clear his head. 

 

War...what had gotten...no, he knew what got into War. the mating, the fires, the sounds and smells of youth’s calling. It was probably completely natural for War to jump whatever he held closest in life.  But it was not the same for Death. Unaffected by the mating heat, he had never seen his brother in such a light .Yes, he was a strapping young Nephilim, built broadly with a face quite handsome for all of its exotic flair among his dark-haired kin. Death had bathed with War, when he was smaller, but also as recent as weeks ago and nothing had passed between them now that would warrant the concern the recent encounter did.

War could not desire him. No one desired Death, and Death desired no one. That was how he functioned in harmony with the chaos of the world. War was misguided, perhaps a little too focused on training and battling at Death’s side. Yes. That was most likely it.    
  


Satisfied with his conclusion, Death set himself to stay away for the rest of the night.

 

-x-

  
  
War huffed, breath still coming quick to him and he slowly opened his eyes as he removed his hands from between his legs and wiped them on a ragged piece of cloth nearby.   
That had helped, as in it enabled him to think straight again, but it was far from over.   
  
He dressed, quickly, and left the house as well, deciding he would go somewhere where he didn’t have to be around all those scents and sounds....   
  
Wearing only light armour and a sword, War left the camp to climb a rock formation from where you had a nice view over the conquered land.   
What he didn’t expect was to find another couple there.  His face fell, had he expected to find solace here.   
  
He sat down anyway, far away enough to ignore the two. Now and then though, he sent a glance over and realized, they weren’t doing anything. The female, an exceptionally beautiful one, even War could see that, had the male’s head, or at least what was visible of it, in her lap and was thoughtfully stroking through spiky black hair.  The male had his eyes closed, obviously, but War couldn’t see his face for it was hidden behind a metal mask.   
The two of them were older than him, but definitely no Firstborn.  Just as he stared a little too long, the female’s gaze fell on him. War looked away quickly enough but the damage was done.

The pair of Nephilim weren’t engaged in any vigorous activity at all, but they did seem interested in him. 

 

Her name was Fury and she’d earned it on the field, for few held ferocity such as hers in battle.

The male in her lap, her brother Strife, whose reputation was of questionable pride among those who knew the pair. They worked as a brilliant team, but isolated themselves from the rest of the Nephilim almost as much as Death did. 

“We’re not going to couple with you, angel boy.” Fury called, earning herself a chuckle from the male, who lifted his head from her lap, but made no move to unmask himself.

  
  
That had War whip his head around, eyes narrowing. Did that stupid nickname course through even the elder ranks?   
Or was it really such a fitting insult?   
  
“I wouldn’t _ want _ to couple with you!” he called back, “Just leave me alone. And if you use that name again, I’ll gut both of you.”   
  
But he definitely was interested in getting his mind off of Death for now.

 

“I’d like to see you try,” Strife was on his feet by now, eager for a fight that wouldn’t end in awkward proposals. The ‘heat’ as they called it was a very dull time for anyone unaffected by it.

But Strife’s plans were not matched by his sister’s, who punched him squarely in the back as she too got to her feet. She came over slowly, hips swaying but without purpose of seduction.

 

“You are Death’s little brother. Aren’t you?”

  
  
War looked away.   
“What does it matter to you? Weren’t you busy with your... coupling?”   
  
He tried to sound as unfriendly as possible, but somehow, the company felt good. The two of them didn’t seem to have much in common with the others currently busy fucking each other’s brains out.   
  
“Besides, it’s courteous to introduce oneself before questioning others.”

 

“Does Death teach you to be nice?” Strife sniped from the side, having gathered his dignity and calm as he approached War as well, though he stayed at his sister’s side, not wanting to risk another ‘loving’ punch to the back.

“Strife, shut your mouth. He is a Firstborn, afford him some of the respect he deserves,” Fury snapped, before turning her vaguely shining eyes back to War.

“I am Fury. This charming ingrate is Strife, and he is my brother.”

 

“Which wouldn’t keep us from coupling by the by, so if you have needs, go release them elsewhere.”

Fury rolled her eyes but didn’t deny the claim.

  
  
War raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything. Here were a pair of siblings... who did submit to the call of the heat. So why did Death run away from him?   
“I’m not interested in coupling with you, as I said before.  I am War.”   
He looked away again.   
“Why are you here? and not... down there?” The younger nephilim said that with a dark ring to his voice.

 

Fury followed his gaze, then shrugged her shoulders, knowing Strife would take the opportunity to speak. And possibly start a fight. Whoever had decided to name him Strife was either the most ingenious or idiotic mind in Creation.

“We’re not like the rest of them. The Heat doesn’t affect us.” Strife sounded as if it was his personal achievement, and if War looked over, he might have seen a little posturing from the Nephilim clad in form fitting iron and steel.

 

“We’ve been on our own for a long time. We don’t really belong with those,” Fury again looked down at the fires, “kin of ours."

 

  
War felt reminded of Death who also sought solace most of the times. In fact, he could imagine that if it weren’t for his brother’s rank and importance, the two of them would be much like Fury and Strife.   
Maybe even as close as they were... Where had his brother even gone to? Not that he should worry, but War really wanted him to return. But what to say when he returned? Apologize? Never mention it again?   
  
Instead of thinking about it any further, War busied himself with making conversation. At least that distracted him sufficiently for a short time.   
  
“So you search for silence up here? As do I. My brother is gone and I have no interest in coupling with anyone down there.”   
And he realized only after how suggestive that sounded. 

 

Fury’s tattooed eyebrows wandered towards the billowing mane of maroonish-violet hair as she turned War’s words over in mind. There was something between those three sentences that should suggest a vital connection. Well. It was not every day one learned a secret of a Firstborn.

“We come up here for some quiet, yes. And some time to think.”

 

“Fury...” Strife warned, hand on her arm and squeezing slightly as if to suggest his sister was about to inflict danger upon both of them, but she just gave him a nod and continued.

 

“I think we can trust the brother of Death, Strife.”

 

“You don’t know that. Have you met Death? Did he strike you as a merciful leader?”

 

She couldn’t answer that, since she never had.

  
  
“He certainly didn’t kill me as he should have,” War said, eyes narrowing, “Mercy is a weakness, so don’t say that ever again in connection with my brother.”

  
He had gotten up by now and was, at full height, as tall as Strife already. “I do not ask you to trust me, but your sister is right, I am trustworthy.”

  
  
War turned to Fury. “Think about what?”

 

Strife scowled, or at least, could be assumed to be scowling behind his mask, but he let go of Fury, giving his consent to the conversation. Not that she would have needed it anyway.

 

“We are tired. Of this.”

She swept her arm out over the entire camp, at the very edge of which, a figure was just barely visible and returning to the bone hut.

 

“Of the pointless battles, the slaughter. This cannot be our only purpose in life. We’re going to leave.”

  
  
“What?” War spoke without thinking. Never had he heard of a Nephilim having grown tired of battle. But the slaughter... There was truth in her words, he had just never contemplated it himself. Slaughtering enemies was legitimate and rightful and honourable, but just slaying for the sake of slaying... War shook his head to get the thoughts out of his head. What would his brother say if he knew War thought like this?   
  
“Leave to where? There’s nowhere you could go! We’ll sooner or later conquer Eden and overthrow the Council. You would always be hunted!”

 

“Tch,” Strife folded his arms over his chest, displaying the two prominent pistols at his thighs, “We know how to take care of ourselves. Creation is a large place, brother of Death. We’ll find a corner to call ours and defend it.”

 

Fury gave silent agreement to her brother, also folding her arms over her chest.

 

“We can’t be the only ones who feel like this, but it is difficult to find anyone with the courage to say so. We were considering going to one of the Firstborn, one of the reasonable ones. Your brother seems a good choice. Or would you say he would take our heads for such insolence?”

  
  
War thought about it.    
“If you show him you’re no cowards, but you’re just tired he might even support you”, he finally said, crossing his arms as well. “But he is gone at the moment and I don’t know when he will return. We had... an argument and he had.. something to do it seems.”  He turned to look over the large vale below them, “I can arrange a meeting if you wish it...”

 

He’d sought out solitude for long enough to get his head in order, War’s turbulent attempt to mate with him aside and rationally explained away. Death owed his little brother at least a clearing conversation.

Which was why he found him now, in what he considered to be War’s retreating point, must have been. The other two Nephilim were a surprise though.

 

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” Strife commented to War, clearing his throat as didn’t step aside for Death’s approach unlike his sister.

 

There was a staredown between mask and a gaze of embers, a silent battle of wills for just a moment before Strife withered and wilted aside to join Fury and allow Death to take the space in the middle.

“I have need of my brother, my kin.” There was no other explanation offered as Death looked at War imploringly.

  
  
As soon as his brother stood before him again, voice dark as he addressed his brother, the heat in his body was back and crawling all through him.   
Death had need of him?   Well, so had War, incredibly so.   
  
Fury and Strife nodded and Fury sent War a glance to which he mutely nodded. They would wait around here, just not close enough to eavesdrop.   
  
“You have...  need of me?” War repeated and the words alone made his voice unstable again and he cursed himself for it.   
  
Death didn’t look angry, but he didn’t look pleased either.

 

Death waited until Fury and Strife cleared away into the foliage of the forest, devoid of creatures because life knew better than to hang around a Nephilim encampment.

 

“I have need to speak with you, yes,” Death could hear, practically taste the disappointment his brother emanated.

 

“War...I cannot be with you...Like you desire. I don’t think it is what you really want, nor do I think it is real. You just have not met one you want. You are young..you have time. The sooner you find a mate, the sooner you will leave my care. And I’d rather be patient with that wait.”

  
  
Silence occurred after that. War didn’t meet his brother’s eyes, instead he had turned away and looked somewhere else.   
  
After what felt like an eternity, he finally spoke.   
“Brother, I swear to you I will never desire someone as much as I desire you. You don’t believe me because you think me a child. But maybe you will see in a few centuries that I mean it.”   
  
War sighed and when he finally turned to face his brother, he looked much older with that stern and utterly serious expression in his bright eyes. “I understand why you think so though so I can’t do much more than to accept your decision.”   
  
Another pause, then he continued, “Strife and Fury needed to speak to you about a rather... delicate matter.”

 

At least his brother had the maturity to accept Death’s decision. It did much in the way of assuring Death he had raised a functional adult, and was not dealing with a child anymore. But the notion that his brother wanted more from him than his care was one he could not process further, not right now.

The change of topic was very welcome indeed.

“Those two?” he indicated the bushes, raising an eyebrow.

 

As if answering a silent call, the siblings emerged, Fury striding forward with confidence beyond her rank.

“Death, we have an important matter to discuss.”

As she laid out the situation, or rather, the plan, Death listened with utmost attention. And found himself incredibly partial to those words. He too had grown tired of the senseless slaughter, but he knew from countless discussions with Absalom he would never convince him to stop.

 

“You speak more wisdom than your age grants you,” he finally spoke, addressing all three, “there is little sense in trying to convince the other Firstborn to change our course. They are too besotted by their bloody victories. If we wish to change the Nephilim’s way, we must seek outside aid.”

  
  
War gawked at his brother. While Strife and especially Fury seemed relieved with that answer - you could even see it in the woman’s expression, the youngest of them just saw the world crumble beneath his feet.   
  
“What are you talking about?” He had expected everything but this, “You’re...” War stared at him in disbelief, “You want to leave, brother? Where? Why? We would be hunted!”

 

Death turned to his brother and watched him a long, long while. He wouldn’t tell War that he too was part of Death’s reason to want this change, that he wanted his little brother’s life to hold more meaning than to one day gloriously die in battle. He wanted more for War, and if he had to turn against his entire people, so be it.

 

“We will go to the Charred Council and offer our services in exchange for aid. The Nephilim’s rampage will lead to the end of Creation, and what good will it do then to be the most powerful existence? There will be nothing to rule, no one to fight, no more to conquer. It is for the sake of Creation that we must do this. I will not force you, War, it is your choice. But I would have you at my side, no matter what we face.”

  
  
War ignored the other two, this was a thing between the two of them. He tried staring down his brother, tried to think of something to reply to that, but it was no use.   
He knew what he wanted and that was staying by his brother’s side, no matter what.   
  
“... I would... never turn against you, brother. I could not. And they would force me to.”

  
  
Strife piped in, “So it is decided then? Great. When are we leaving? Today?”

 

“Tomorrow. I will have one last word with Absalom, then we take our leave. Whether or not it will be peaceful remains to be seen.”

Death didn’t look away from War for an instant, trying to relay his gratitude for his brother’s decision, because being parted from War was something he really didn’t want to experience. Not now, not ever.


	5. Chapter 5

They were waiting, weirdly huddling together and thus being stared at by the others. The mating season was almost over and many Nephilim were recovering but that didn’t keep them from frowning at War, Strife and Fury.   
The three of them were waiting. 

Death had insisted on a last word with the Nephilim first created, Absalom, and he had yet to return to their side.   
  
They were prepared for everything, even for a fight and a flight afterwards. They could not possibly fight the whole race of the Nephilim.

  
  
Not yet.   
  
Because that was what would be their fate should they choose to bond with the Charred Council.   
  
“When’s he gonna be back? Does he always take that long?” That was Strife and you could clearly hear the tension in his voice, even through the mask that gave everything he said a metallic echo.   
  
“I don’t know,” War growled, tense himself, glaring at everyone who came to close. “Just wait...”

 

They would not have to wait for long. Absalom, much like Death, preferred to reside in a hut of sorts and it was this hut which exploded into a flurry of bones and dirt, two shapes leaping or being thrown from the inside only to land in a cluttered pile in front of the collected Nephilim. Death and Absalom were locked into combat, and there was nothing playful or respecting about it. The first Nephilim held even more strength than Death, but he was faster, more agile and Harvester was a devastating advantage. 

 

No one had ever thrown Death around like Absalom could. His powers were near unfathomable, and yet, the pale Firstborn held his own. Tentacles rose, only to be sliced off before they could touch Death.

“You are mad, you damned traitorous fool!” Absalom thundered as he towered over Death, who would not be cowed despite his injuries. And they were plentiful.

 

“If you are comparing me to yourself, it is a compliment,” Death sneered and changed his scythe into two blade, “you never had a mind to begin with.”

 

Absalom gave a roar and launched himself at the agile, pale Nephilim who could not completely escape his grip.

 

The assembled Nephilim did nothing but stare. Firstborn never fought amongst themselves.   
  
Fury and Strife too looked shocked and stared, unmoving, too frightened but also weirdly attracted by the display of such raw, earth-shattering power.   
The only one who had not stopped to stare now had actually managed to throw a boulder the size of a horse at Absalom. Not that it hurt the Firstborn, but it confused him enough to let go off Death.   
  
The gathered Nephilim snapped out of their stupor, only to turn around and stare at War. “Call my brother a mad fool again and I will cut off your tongue, damn you!” he hissed.

 

Death used his opportunity to call up a horde of ghouls, his necromancy skills unmatched in Creation. Absalom gave a curse as the creatures closed in on him. Death seized his chance and changed Harvester into a very large hammer, which he brought down on Absalom’s head with devastating force. Enough to knock the first Nephilim out, at least.

No one stepped forward to contend with him after that.

He glared out at the masses of surprised faces, then breathed in deeply and walked over to the three awaiting him.

“Let’s go. These fools will not see reason.”

 

He was injured and tired, but by no means spent. And Absalom was stirring already, so their time was short indeed.

 

-x-

  
  
  
Their journey to the Council had been long.   
War didn’t know how long exactly they had been wandering through a realm that was more dead than living, that resembled hell, but somehow didn’t.    
And then suddenly, there had been stairs in front of them and they had stepped in front of three huge heads, carved from the stone. Eyes as fiery as lava, they addressed the four Nephilim in front of them.   
  
“Nephilim!” They seemed surprised, but very, very anxious and mistrusting, “Why did you come here?”   
  


Of course, everyone waited for Death to answer, really.

He was already the unquestioned leader among his younger kin, so Death stepped forward, staring up at the three heads and wondering what kind of power they possessed. Whatever it was, he could feel it, burning on his skin like terrible fire ready to march through his veins and throttle his life in the thick, acrid smoke.

“We’ve come to you for favour, Council.”

 

“FAVOUR! You dare ask such a thing?!”  the head to the left accused with flames spitting from his eyes and lava dripping from a jagged, still mouth.

 

“Yes. You need our help, so you can grant us favour and receive it.” Death replied quite calmly in the face of such burning power.

 

“Your insolence knows no bounds!”

 

He would have said more, but pain was crippling every part of him, made his tongue heavy and his insides clench so hard he thought he might have been impaled.

 

Death crumpled to the floor, groaning with pain as the Charred Council’s eyes burned and blazed.

  
  
War knew he was not supposed to step in, this was his brother’s task, but when they didn’t even let his brother talk anymore, he stepped forward anyway.   
  
“At least allow him to speak or you might as well sign your own downfall!”

  
More flames, but finally, they let go off Death.   
Another one of the heads spoke, this one sounded more calm.   
  
“What do you think we could want from you, Nephilim? And what do you beg for in return?”

 

Death coughed and spluttered a mouthful of dark liquid, the closest he had ever been to bleeding, to the ground. He didn’t rise from his kneeling position, understanding the Council’s need for deference in face of the atrocities the Nephilim had committed.

“We know the Nephilim plan to take Eden and destroy the Third Kingdom. I believe you value your Balance more than you despise us. Grant us the strength to stop their charge and I will serve you.”

 

“Just one?” The right head blazed this time, contemplating the Firstborn’s words.

 

“That is an insufficient offer at best.”

 

“No, not one,” Fury cut in, taking her place at Death’s left side and kneeling as well. Strife followed her a moment later.

 

“We too, will serve you if you grant us strength.”

  
War was the last one to stand and he took a moment, mustering the Council, even sneering at them, but then, he too knelt in front of the stone heads.   
  
“As will I.”

  
  
“Only four? Isn’t that ridiculous?” one of the heads thundered, but was quickly silenced by another one. They awaited somehow the decision of the other, the third.

The right head, one that spoke more slowly than the others, voiced his opinion at last.

“It is accepted. You shall be our Four. Enforcers of the Charred Council. Keepers of Balance. Four Horsemen to end Creation when time runs out.”

 

  
Horsemen? Death looked up, not understanding the meaning of the term but the Council would take no more questioning. And then. There was immense rush, coursing through him. He felt his skin drain, paling further until he took on the ashen grey of a corpse. Harvester sung as the power imbued itself into every particle of it and its wielder.   
  
Similar things happened to other Nephilim who now were to call themselves Horsemen.   
  
“Your first task,” that was the first head again, the one that had most probably tortured Death as well,  “Annihilate the Nephilim.”   
  



	6. Chapter 6

They had been utterly silent on their way back. 

It seemed that everyone had sunken deep into thoughts until, suddenly, Strife commented dryly, “Horsemen? Without horses? Or are we supposed to ride each other into battle?”   
  
Fury punched his shoulder. “Strife is right. We need horses.”

 

Death was very silent along the way. He had a lot to think about, that was for sure. It was his idea to go to the Council. His idea to try and stop Absalom. His resolve the other three had followed.  So it was on his conscience that they would now face down their own kind and bring about their destruction.  He couldn’t waver. He couldn’t flinch away from this. He had to lead his brothers and sister, he was the one they counted on for guidance and leadership.

“The Council spoke of a kind of shepherd. A man we must seek out to achieve the last puzzle to our strength.”

The portal opened with a snapping hiss, green lining its edges. Death looked at the flames, wondering if they would forever scorch and mark his magic.

“In this realm.” 

 

Green fields waited for them as they passed through.  The Horsemaster awaited them with a scowl.

“Put aside your weapons. Taming these beasts will require a tool of far greater strength.”

 

The four followed the man’s view of the cliff, revealing a vast plain, a dust cloud swirling in the distance.

“They are ancient. The blood of Creation flows through their veins. The winds of eternity blow through their manes. They will not yield to steel or whip, to gun or blade.”

He turned to give them a penetrating stare that even Death did not argue with.

“Only to your will.”

 

Their weapons clattered to the ground. Yet none of them moved towards the plain, instead stalling, waiting.

 

“Care to wager who will tame the first beast?” War’s voice was almost arrogant, so full of young confidence.

 

“This is not a game to be played by children!” the Horsemaster scolded, “I despair that none of you has the fortitude to become what you must.”

 

Death had not moved either, quiet and still as he came to a decision. With a running leap, he jumped off of the cliff, approaching the cloud of dirt, a herd of horses as white as now with blazing eyes charging towards him.

Death did not move.  His brethren stared, all three of them.

  
Only Fury commented, arms crossed, “Since when is  _ he _ the rash one?” The side-glance to War was obligatory, but the youngest Nephilim of the group didn’t say anything.

  
The horses had reached Death by now and War couldn’t see his brother anymore.   
His hand twitched and he looked back at his sword only to receive a threatening glare from the Horsemaster.  War stood still, and then, finally, one horse broke from the herd, with a rider atop its pale back.   
Strife was the first one to recover as he gave a dismissive noise that sounded like he could be infinitely cooler even in face of Death riding a horse up a cliff.  Soon enough, the oldest ‘Horseman’ stood in front of them, the horse looking like its kin, pale overall, with a wild mane and eyes as white as snow.   
  
“It does not have a name yet,” the Horsemaster advised Death.

 

Death slid from the creature’s back, thinking a moment, his face shadowed by billowing dark hair. Then, he rested his palm on the patient horse’s muzzle, leaned his face closer, whispering the beast’s new name as if it were a confession.

“Despair.”

Something thundered through the sky and raced down to strike the horse. It gave a screeching neigh that turned into a gurgling, moaning sound as it reared. It was no longer a creature of living flesh. Pale green fire licked around a skinless body as white as bone.

  
  
“Woah...!” Strife backed up, eyes bright behind his mask.

  
War and Fury seemed equally impressed, but only she snorted at her brother’s obvious discomfort.   
“Are you  _ afraid _ of horses?”   
  
Instead of waiting for the two siblings to cease their banter, War exchanged a quick glance with his brother, then simply went to jump over the cliff and land on the ground.   
The herd, after Death had left with Despair, was still now, but they all looked up in alert as War hit the ground, leaving a huge dent in the dry earth.

  
War stepped forward. “I challenge the strongest of you to a battle,” he called, and began actually taking off his armour until he was stripped almost naked except for his pants. 

“I don’t carry weapons with me. If you win, all of us will leave and no one of your herd shall be taken away. If you lose though, you’ll aid me in battle and carry me wherever I wish to go.”

  
  
Fury rolled her eyes, “Is he mad?” she asked Death, “Does he always want to do wrestle things?”

  
  
It took a while until the herd finally split up and made way for a horse that looked muscular and incredibly grim. Even if they all looked alike, this one was special.   
  
War readied himself.

  
He didn’t know how many minutes had passed, or were it hours?

  
Finally, he had managed to wrestle the horse down, both of them exhausted and breathing heavily, both of them dirty, white hair more brown and black than white.   
But War was pinning the steed down until the horse finally gave up resistance and laid still.   
  
War let go off it and it got up the next second, shaking its muscular neck and stomping the ground a little as if it was annoyed with itself.    
Then, it stepped forward, standing still in front of War, obviously waiting for something.   
  
“Ruin,” the young nephilim said, “Your name shall be Ruin.”

  
  
In front of his eyes, his newfound partner exploded into a fireball and gave a shrill neigh before it sunk into the Earth and disappeared.   
Only for a blink of an eye though.

  
Then, the ground split open and a beast sprung forth that was probably twice the muscle-mass of the steed before with fur like granite. Marks were on its body that seemed to be carved into the flesh and yet showed only molten, fiery glowing stone beneath.  Sparks flew from it’s nostrils as it snorted and hellfire glowed in its eyes.    
War didn’t back up when the steed came closer. He didn’t even flinch when the horse mustered him up and down and then, after a very long pause, bowed its massive neck and pressed its muzzle against the young nephilim’s forehead.  Pain shot through him, as if the horse was carving something right into his skin, but War didn’t give any kind of sound.   
Ruin seemed to test him. To test and to mark him, because when the steed was done, it felt like an open wound.   
  
The steed stared some more.

  
  
That only was for a short time though, because when War touched his neck and swung himself up onto his back, now in full armour again, Ruin almost seemed proud to carry a rider whose strength surpassed its own.

  
  
Death had watched the display from Despair’s back. Horse and Horseman stood rooted, silent, only Death’s hair swaying in the harsh breeze.  Only War would think to wrestle a horse in order to subdue its will. And apparently, there was just the beast for him; a massive thing of pure muscle power, a neck thicker than any bull’s, legs that would trample War’s enemies like flies.  It was the perfect steed for his brother. Once it was conquered, named and changed, the black horse carried its rider to the cliff to stand beside Despair, a stark contrast to the pale horse.

Death regarded the new pair beside him and there was pride in his blazing orange gaze.

“A little ostentatious, isn’t it?”

He pointedly looked at the horse’s legs, cracked and glowing with fire.

  
  
“Says the man riding a half-skeleton that awakens the souls of the damned with every step it takes,” War retorted, but he seemed content and patted Ruin’s neck. The steed gave a snort and then whipped his mighty head around to nudge Despair’s neck.   
  


Fury was the next one to get her horse. Her first attempts ignored by the herd of ethereal horses, she lived up to her chosen name, diving into the depths of the herd and choosing a steed, convincing it to submit to her will by sheer persistence. Her horse too received a transformation, and its coat was the colour of midnight, eyes blazing magenta like Fury's fiery hair. She named her mount Vengeance.

  
  
Only Strife had his problems since he was obviously really afraid of the beasts.

  
“Why do you take so long, just grab one!” Fury shouted down, petting her horse’s neck.

None of the three fully fledged Horsemen made a move to do anything more than berate Strife for his hesitation. Death said nothing, watched the younger Nephilim with a scrutiny that might have forced a mountain to kneel, if only it could look upon those eyes.

Despair stood close to Ruin. Whatever the horses’ relation, it seemed to mirror the brothers themselves. Ruin nibbled at Despair’s neck, rubbed his head against his shoulder and whickered softly as the pale mount stood still save for a light tilt of his snout, a brief touch of the nuzzle to Ruin’s searching nose.

“If he does not find a mount, he will have to walk.”

 

Meanwhile Strife stared down the herd, who had enough of Nephilim picking at their numbers and stared back with the malicious intent of goats. One in particular seemed to take issue with Strife’s presence and stepped forward, before it circled the Nephilim, distrust and possibly the urge to strike him down with swift hooves in his body and gaze.

The horse quickly got the better of Strife and kicked him so hard he flew backwards.   
Really, Strife might be a master marksman, but in close combat? With a horse?

  
  
War and Fury were openly laughing by now and even Death seemed amused as the horse pushed Strife around. But the almost-horseman didn’t give up. How could he have surrendered, it would have been terribly humiliating.   
This was humiliating enough.  And so, Strife simply let the horse take out its rage against him until at some point, it began to calm down and at some point stood entirely still even, so he could mount it.   
  
Fury and War were still chuckling when he returned and Strife, as well as the horse, gave them the stink-eye. 

  
  
What caused them to break out in laughter again was the fact that Strife’s horse didn’t turn into a mighty steed, but a slender, embellished thing that wore a mask much like its owner.   
When the Horsemen had calmed down and Death had kept the other three from entering a brawl, horses included, Fury came up with the idea of a race. Of course, War and Strife were burning for it and Death more or less agreed to it, not really interested in winning at all.  It ended with Conquest beating the three mighty battle steeds easily and War and Ruin both sulking because again, horse and rider weren’t really built for speed. 

All the while, Despair had only been up for a lumbering trot behind the three hot-headed young Horsemen. Death had other things than petty squabbling on his mind. Whilst Strife lived out his glee at the won race, the pale horse and rider stood by the Horsemaster, conversing for only a few moments. then, Despair gave a call, a weird, wooping neigh that had the other three horses trot and canter over, disregarding their riders command entirely.

 

It seemed even their horses recognized and subdued to Death’s leadership and by extension, Despair’s authority.

“There is little time to grow accustomed to these new powers, my brothers,” a nod to Fury, “and sister. Soon, we will face our kin in battle. The Nephilim will try to take Eden. We cannot allow it. The Council has given us this power and Heaven will ally itself with us in order to protect Eden. Prepare yourselves, however you deem necessary. You will know when it is time, but I will call you nonetheless.”

That was the cue for Strife and Fury to make their own path and they promptly did, Vengeance and Conquest leaving sight the moment their riders had nodded and turned.

 

“War, remain with me.”   
  
War gave his brother a look that told Death he wouldn’t have left anyway.   
With a nod, the horsemaster left them too and the two brothers were alone.   
  
“What is it?” War wanted to know, sensing his brother needed to speak to him for some reason.

 

Death turned Despair to walk alongside Ruin, so close the legs of their riders almost brushed together.

He looked at his brother, marveled slightly at how much he’d grown, how capable and mature War appeared now, wrapped in armour and a half shroud of crimson. Yet his eyes shone brightly as he awaited Death’s words. Still as trusting as when he’d been a precious child. Death wondered why his chest ached when he thought of War on a battlefield, War wounded, War closer to Death’s namesake than anything else...He had to steel himself. Had to let go of the notion that he could keep this young Nephilim, now Horseman, safe from Creation.

“You have need of a proper weapon. You favour the sword?”

  
  
War pulled a face as if he was internally saying ‘brother,  _ please _ ...’.    
“You know I favour the sword, brother." he answered plainly, but he couldn’t hide the obvious question in his voice.   
What was his brother trying to tell him?   
  
He liked how their legs brushed occasionally. To War, it was a sign of intimacy that Death let him be so physically close with him, in a manner that was easily ignored and very casual, but still a light touch.   
  
The question about his favoured weapon had War wonder a little. His brother was no Maker, but an excellent craftsman nevertheless, having created several infamous weapons of different types amongst the Firstborn ranks and of course, his own scythe, Harvester.   
  
When he still had been a young lad, War had always waited for his brother to forge him a very own sword. But at some point he had given up on that thought, Death would not equip him with such dangerous material.   
  
But now, at the question, all the excitement came up again.

 

“You need a better weapon at your side,” Death gave War’s current equipment a look that spoke endless volumes of not being impressed. True, he was no Maker. Nor was he a smith or armourer. But Death was innovative and he had, though the younger Nephilim did not know so, crafted weapons so terrifying even the Nephilim did not dare wield them. He recalled the Grand Abominations all too well. No, he would not craft something like that for War. But still, something that would keep him safe with more than just his brute strength and sharp edges.

“I will make you a better one.”

He would much prefer to be crafting War a weapon out of recognition, or maybe as a sign that he had finally grown up and earned Death’s full respect, but it was not to be so. This gift would have to be imparted earlier.

  
War seemed to pick up on that notion. It was easy to count one and one together. It was because of the fight, because his brother wanted to protect him once more by giving him a sword that was somehow working in a way that protected him somehow.   
  
He wasn’t angry, only slightly disappointed, but did well in not showing it.   
“It’d be a honour,” he said calmly, because still, even if it was no sign of recognition but another attempt at showing him Death still thought of him as a child that needed protection, it was still a sword made by Death.   
Not many people had the skill to and even less  out of them were given the honour to wield one of those.

It was peaceful here, in the Horsemaster’s realm. Endless plains rolled out in front of them, with nothing more than the wind to disturb the grass and insects.

 

And yet, Death was not comfortable. He wanted to speak of so many things with War, especially now that they were alone. He wanted to thank him for his blind trust, for the way he’d followed Death far from the Nephilim with no more reason than they were brothers. It meant a lot to Death, who never had the need or mind for family or legacy. He had War. He didn’t need much else.

“We might not return from this battle. Absalom will not take kindly to our actions,” he began, not sure what he was trying to say. He knew keeping War from battle would be impossible. Nor could they afford the lack of his strength.

“I am proud of you.” It sounded so very strange, but Death felt the need to admit to it. “It’s...humbling to call you my brother.”

  
  
Not once in his rather short life had Death told him something like that. Sure, he had let him feel it plenty of times, but never had the Firstborn actually admitted to it in front of him.   
  
War felt his chest constrict weirdly and he couldn’t stop staring at the older who was pointedly avoiding returning the gaze.

  
“I...” War began, voice sounding off and hoarse, “Thank you, brother.”

  
  
They might not return from this battle... War didn’t even want to think of a life without his older brother. It hurt more than the nastiest wound and he certainly wouldn’t want to keep a pain like that for the whole rest of his life.   
  
“I’m glad you decided to keep me,” War admitted quietly, “I was prepared for a life alone, I was prepared for dying there on the battlefield. But I certainly had never thought about the chance of receiving a real family on that day.”

 

Death reached out then, hand resting on War’s shoulder as he gazed at him for a good long moment. They were both thankful for each other’s presence, there could be no doubt about that, but it took extreme peril such as the looming battle for Eden to unite them and coax them into confession.

“What starts with War, will forever end with Death,” he breathed, all too aware of the many connotations of that promise.


	7. Chapter 7

The massive, black sword weighed nothing in his hand. Death had made a true weapon for him, a weapon that all the swords he had possessed before paled in its presence.   
  
And ironically, the first blood it would taste was Nephilim blood.   
They were standing in front of Eden’s gates, on horseback like their titles demanded. And in front of them, the entire horizon was filled with their former kinsmen.   
  
Ruin snorted and stomped a hoof, adequately representing War’s state of mind. He was silenced by a glare from Despair and then suddenly, the horse started walking as well as one warrior of the nephilim ranks.   
  
Both, horseman and nephilim met in the middle of what would be their battlefield.

  
  
The ‘messenger’ stood in front of Death for a while, a hood covering most of his head.

And then he took the hood off and glared at his former brother.

  
  
Even on this distance, War recognized him and growled. “Absalom.”

 

Death stared down at his former brother and leader, could see the rage and hatred pulse strongly on Absalom’s face. Behind him, blackening the horizon and roaring their challenge, the Nephilim. They were not entirely alone. Strange beasts flitted among them, emissaries of Hell, no doubt, to spite the white-winged army behind the Horsemen.

“It is not too late Absalom. Turn this madness, march your army to their homes. Wherever you choose them to be from the countless conquered worlds. You will only find your demise here today if you try to take Eden. It belongs to Man.”

 

Absalom seethed, his rage dripping from his jaws as red as blood, though it may be just that. The first Nephilim glared so hard, a lesser creature would have fled in terror, a normal horse would drop dead.

But not so Despair and Death. The pale horse gave a snort and pawed the ground, much like Ruin before him, a challenge and impatience.

 

“There will be no simple passing for you Death. I will take every pleasure of torturing you before throwing you to Oblivion. Eden will be mine. The strongest has right to everything!”

 

“This is your last warning, Absalom.”

 

Both Nephilim stared at each other, but the answer was clear. Without speaking a word, Absalom conveyed his opinion through one sneer.

Death tugged on the rusted chain that served him as reins and Despair turned with a wooping neigh, cantering back towards their own side. Despair’s hooves showered the first row of angels with dirt as he wheeled and reared. His rider looked grim, a pale mask in his hand, of ivory or bone. 

He placed it onto his face, then gripped Harvester. The entire army and his three siblings watched with baited breath.

“This is where they’ll die.”    
  


  
  
It was over.    
Chaoseater was dripping with blood, War’s clothes stuck to him soaked with all kinds of fluids their enemies had spilled before their death (mostly blood though, really, they hadn’t had time for anything else) and his hair was more red than white).   
War had never felt so exhausted before.  The sword felt heavy in his grip, even though it wasn’t and brimming with power still, but this really showed him his boundaries as far as slaughter being fun to him went.  He knew this had been necessary, and he had taken his enemies’ lives in an honourable way. But he still had aided in slaughtering the Nephilim.   
  
Their race was extinct now, except for the four of them, and Absalom whom Death was still fiercely battling with.   
The few angels and the few demons that had survived had long retreated.

 

The ground was crimson with blood, hundreds of thousand dead bodies all around them. One last time, War pulled Chaoseater and was intending to help his brother to defeat the last one of them, but Death sent him a warning glare and War stood back, watching the two Firstborn.  The battle with Absalom had been inevitable and very, very long. At some point, Death abandoned his horse, Despair got more in the way than really help defeat the first Nephilim. So his rider dismissed the horse and battled himself. 

It wasn’t easy, even with the given strength the Council bestowed upon the four of them. Absalom was the leader of their race for good reason. His axe could have cleaved Despair in two halves, his bare hands could tear demons and angels to shreds.  Against such might, Death had to make full use of his speed and agility and the most dangerous advantage he had, his sharp mind. With a mixture of necromantic magic, fast and vicious blows with Harvester and a few elongated clashes of words and blades, the Nephilim wore each other down and with one last, gargantuan effort, Death struck the final blow, burying his scythe deep in Absalom’s chest.

No other Nephilim but War, Fury and Strife would bear witness to their leader’s downfall at the hands of Death, who looked as weary and exhausted as any of them.

 

“Take my hand, one last time,” Absalom reached up, offering his broken and bloody digits to Death. He clasped at them, yet could do nothing to hold the first as something dark sprouted from the ground, grotesque and greedy and pulled Absalom into its pits.

 

War watched and he would have marveled at his brother’s glorious victory if it hadn’t been for the situation that with Absalom, the last free nephilim had fallen.

  
  
Death looked exhausted. Never before had War seen him like that. But it wasn’t done yet. Around Death’s neck was a heavy chain with a huge gem inside of it. The stone was dull, for a moment until Death straightened up and began to murmur words, chants as War figured when suddenly, little green-glowing orbs of smoke left the bodies of the Fallen and flew towards the gem. It glowed more and more with every soul collected and when the last soul was inside the gem, it shone brighter than the brightest torch War had ever seen.   
  
“Brother, why...” he began, but Death silenced him with a glare. War had to grow accustomed to the mask now, his brother didn’t seem to be wanting to take it off.

 

Death breathed heavily, still on his knees as he had been when the souls of the Nephilim flew towards him. The amulet weighed more than all of the steel of their weapons combined, a burden too great for the small shape it wore.  The whispering voices were screaming in his head, demanding their freedom and yet were only denied.  War’s voice sounded a million miles away and for all intent and purpose, he might as well have been. There was no answer for War save for the look Death afforded him as he pulled himself to his feet, slowly. Harvester was planted in the ground for leverage, but Death still wavered, even seemed to be shaking. The eldest Horseman was worn to the bone, anyone could see that.

“It is done.” 

 

He would not permit questioning of why he’d taken the Nephilim souls, against the wishes or rather, express command of the Council.   
  
War stayed away, something in the voice of his brother stopped him from coming closer.    
Death looked as if he was in need for a little support, but the younger could feel his brother did not want  _ him  _ to be the support.   
  
“What would you have us do next?” he tried carefully. Something about the whole mood told him he had to be careful with his brother now or something horrible would happen.

  
  
Fury and Strife had come closer by now, the two of them looked equally worn out.   
  
“Report to the Council,” Strife answered when Death didn’t. His eyes lingered a moment on the glowing orb around Death’s neck, but he didn’t comment anything.

 

“No.” Death spoke slowly as he gathered strength he did not have. The amulet was glowing, the voices were wailing and all three of his siblings now stared at him, eager and anxious for a command. They were all so young, barely left childhood behind them and now, they were the only four Nephilim in existence. It was almost tragic, but Death held no possible energy to think on the dramatics of their situation.

“I will report to the Council. In due time. I’m sure they will summon you as they wish...but for now, you are free to go. Find a realm to make your home, rest...we have won, and the price paid was terrible. But I do not want you to think of it now. You have done well.”

 

Fury and Strife exchanged a glance, then they nodded at Death.   
“So did you, brother,” Fury said quietly, and then, “Rest well, Death. Farewell.”

  
  
Both of them mounted their horses and left, leaving War and Death alone.    
  
“What did they mean, rest well? What are you...”   
War fell silent as he slowly understood. “Brother, are you... what do you mean, find a realm to make your home? You know I need no home as long as...” his voice faltered a little, “as long as you’re there too...”

  
  
But he wouldn’t be there. War could see it in his eyes. Something in his brother had changed forever with this day. It wasn’t only the death of the Nephilim that would change War’s life from now on, it was also the deep guilt Death carried that converted his whole being into a different personality.   
  
“You are leaving me,” War finally said, unable to look at him.

 

Facing down War and telling him he could no longer accompany Death on his road was almost as hard as the decision to leave the Nephilim. Actually, probably harder, because Death had not raised anyone else. And War knew damn well how to make his guilt weigh heavy on his brother’s shoulders.

“I have need of solitude, brother,” for War, Death’s voice softened, demanded no penance from his listener, but offered apology.

 

“You’re capable and young, you do not need me. You are free to do as you please, War,” Death turned towards his horse, which had come back at a moderate walk, “I have much to do.”

 

  
It wouldn’t be easy and War would not forgive him easily. He knew that. He dreaded it too, and yet he wouldn’t look at his little brother.   
  
War stood there, like a dog in the rain, blood already dried in his hair and on his skin and clothes, and stared after his brother.   
  
“I’ll come find you, just wait, damn you!!”   
  



	8. Chapter 8

Snow was falling slowly, painting the ground white.    
It was even sticking to the gravestones, covering names and dates, old ones in the back of the cemetery as well as new ones closer to the church.   


The church wasn’t big, really, but since it was Christmas Eve, the old building, though long not as old as the oldest gravestone there in the old part of the graveyard, contained a lot of people.

  
  
The presence of humans nearby, did not disturb the graveyard’s only visitor tonight. Heavy boots left footprints in the fresh snow accompanied by the faint noise of metal pieces clinking against each other as the man moved.   
He left the new part of the graveyard quickly and walked past stone that had been there possibly more than three, four or even five centuries in the back.   
The people that were buried here had noone to visit them, their families, friends, children, grandchildren all buried as well. No one to remember them.    
The fate of those people did not even occur to the visitor.   
A crimson hood concealed his eyes, long strands of hair as white as the snow around him framing what was visible of his face.   
  
Finally, he stopped, in front of a huge statue made entirely from stone. It was the very image humans had of a being they called the Grim Reaper. Wings made from bone entirely, a ragged cloth hiding both his face and shoulders from sight, bony fingers wrapped around a huge scythe.

  
  
The visitor looked up, eyes pupilless and entirely of a blue-ish white, glowing even.   
  
Then he reached out to press a gloved hand against the cold stone.

  
  
“Brother...”   
The word could also have been a faint whisper of the wind; it sounded so hoarse as if the man had spoken only words that were absolutely necessary in centuries.   
  
The statue behaved as cold, unliving stone usually did. No movement, no noise, nothing. For all intent and purpose, War was stroking an image of his brother, concocted by the human mind and made by human hands. The grim reaper was a long-standing myth humanity had yet to dismiss.

But this was no man-made relic of a belief in something dire. The impossible details, from the curved skulls on Harvester’s long blade to the thin tendrils of skin and flesh still clinging to those skeletal fingers, gave away the true identity of this supposed sculpture.

 

Death’s body was encased within, kept safe from harm and wear, impossible to find or contact by the Charred Council, leaving his soul free to wander. And it had wandered plenty. Currently though,  he could not occupy himself with guilt or questioning his actions of the past, because someone had indeed discovered him.

Death’s soul watched War very carefully, before he brushed by and swept a hand over his crimson hood. War wouldn’t feel it as more than a breeze, but maybe the particularly cool ‘air’ on his cheek would remind him of Death’s touch enough to realize he was not alone.

  
  
War looked up at the breeze, turning around, but he could see nothing.   
Except for maybe a long train of humans leaving the church, bells ringing rather quietly as their late-night mass was over.   
  
“Mom, look, there’s an angel visiting the Grim Reaper!”   
  
War’s lips twitched at that comment, he very well heard it, even over this distance. But it mattered little to him, his brother was here.   
  
“Sophie, there’s certainly not an angel on that unholy part of the graveyard,” the mother scolded her child, but looked over nevertheless, only to be greeted with a pair of glowing eyes as War looked back over his shoulder. He had never seen a human scurry away so quickly.

  
  
The other people did not seem to take notice of him, whether that was his brother’s doing or the general ignorance of the inhabitants of the Third Realm remained unknown and mattered little.   
War turned back, staring at the unmoving stone for a while. 

  
  
“I miss you,” he brought out, finally, but it didn’t come out with the almost childish trust and the easiness he had once said those words.    
It sounded as if he had difficulties speaking them, as if the worlds around him had done good work in hardening him, even when it came to his brother.   
  
Nothing, still. No purple dust, no transformation. His brother just stood there, unmoving still and War’s head sunk.   
“I understand,” he muttered quietly and turned, pulling his hood back up and deep into his face, “I will come back in time...”

 

Death’s spirit was hovering behind War, frowning softly at his brother’s defeated tone. He sounded hurt, lonely...and yet, not angry. Just defeated. Death missed his little War, he truly did, not a day passed when he didn’t think of the days with young, angelic looking Nephilim at his side.

He yearned to embrace his brother’s broad form, ached to swipe his fingers through War’s hair and tell him that their reunion would end his sorrow. But it was not yet time. He was still too raw, didn’t want to burden War with a destroyed vision of his elder brother.   
  


-x-

  
  
This time, it was summer, the graveyard was not covered in snow. It had grown though since the last time War had been here, there were a lot of new gravestones, the new ones from last time considered old now.   
As he walked towards the huge statue that was his brother, people were leaving the church again.   
  
An old woman, heavily leaning on a younger man, stopped and stared after him.   
“Stephen,” she said, “There... there is the angel visiting the Grim Reaper again...!”   
  
“Grandma.. There is no angel, what are you talking ab--”

  
  
War ignored them and turned to his brother, hands on the cold stone as he leaned his forehead against it as well.   
“It has been another century, brother. This time, I won’t lea--”   
  
He felt a presence to his side and stopped talking, head whipping around.   
  
A very old human was standing in front of him, a female.

“What do you want?” he growled.    
  
“You were here when I was a little girl,” she said, “Right?”

  
  
War frowned. Humans could get that old, and he remembered the child mentioning the ‘angel visiting the Grim Reaper’.

  
  
“I am no angel,” he answered carefully. 

The woman nodded, perfectly content with the answer. “I can see that now. You are missing the wings.” 

  
“Grandma...” The young man behind the woman stared fearfully at War, “We should leave, it is late...”   
  
War’s bright eyes landed on him and the guy flinched.

  
  
“Are you visiting the Reaper again?” the old woman wanted to know, “Did he answer you this time?”

  
  
War stared at her, completely baffled by now by the audacity and the lack of fear.   
“No... not yet.. My brother is not very talkative in this form.”   
  
“He’s mad,” the young man murmured, “Some LARPer gone mad....” 

“Shush!”   
  


Above them, the great reaper statue was covered in the signs of aging stone, moss peeking over Harvester’s blade, dark marks running from beneath the faceless hood. 

And it gave a creak.

 

The old lady’s great-grandson was tugging at her, but due to her frail nature, he did not dare drag her away. The little old woman didn’t have any intention of leaving the angel without wings.

“He is your brother? He’s been sleeping a long time, hasn’t he?” 

They weren’t the only humans whose eyes War had drawn. A small crowd was beginning to gather and a significant number of them were seniors. Very, very old humans, the only ones who remembered those buried in this part of the graveyard.

The statute gave another ominous creak.

  
  
“Yes, he has been sleeping for six centuries now,” War answered, eyes briefly sweeping over the gathered crowd. A lot of old people.  And something was about them that felt like his brother, that had his skin tickle in a pleasant way. Whatever his brother was doing here, it seemed to keep the visitors of this part of the graveyard from dying too soon, definitely.   
  
At the next creak, War turned around.

  
“Don’t you dare laugh at me, damn you.”   
  
“Now, no curse words in his presence, young man,” the old woman said to War who should later question himself why he had allowed a human to call him ‘young’ man, “He watches over the graveyard ever since I was little. They tried to destroy this place countless of times, but they couldn’t. This is a sacred place.”

  
  
War looked at all of them. They didn’t seem startled by his appearance and didn’t question him. Apparently, those old people had always believed in something mystical, something they didn’t quite understand, being attached to this place. They seemed rather happy to have received proof for what they believed before they died.   
  
“Brother...”  War turned around again, “This time I won’t leave you. I will stay here until you return to my side.”

 

Apparently, the old people had gathered to witness whatever War was waiting for, because the lady who’d addressed him as young man barked at her companion to bring her a chair. Somehow, around twenty old folk were prepared to wait with the large, odd man in their midst. They had food and chairs and chatted among themselves, their younger family looking rather nervous, with the good sense to fear War instead of accept his presence as perfectly harmless.  Death had touched some of his magic upon all of these humans and somehow, they knew it was a monumental moment, one they could not miss.

 

The statue remained silent for an hour before it began creaking in earnest, almost as if something moved within the old stone. 

And then, just as War took a pace back, the stone cracked visibly, before exploding into fragments. Three people took chunks of stone to their chests and heads, resulting in screams and blood, but the others were mesmerized by what, or rather, who emerged from the wreckage.  Death stood upon the statue’s raised base and blinked behind his mask, Harvester in his grip as a crow fluttered down from a tree and settled upon his shoulders to give a loud squawk before it started preening.

 

Complete silence spread among the audience as they gazed upon the pale apparition. There was no mistaking this creature for human.

  
  
War stared at him. Still, the humans behind him made no sounds, they were gaping at Death.

  
  
“Welcome back,” War said carefully, voice weirdly hoarse again, as if he was struggling to not portray that many emotions.   
He was no child anymore.   
“Did you rest well?”   
  
  


“War,” Death’s voice sounded like a crypt, like the slow slide of ancient stones scraping over each other. Perhaps he had slept a little too long this time. 600 years had passed since he’d last seen War. And no, he could not claim that he did not miss his little brother.  Slowly, he stepped forward, before enveloping War in an embrace. He’d remembered the pain in his little brother’s face and voice when he’d visited before and he would not disappoint the bond that remained so firmly between them.

 

“He’s a lot more handsome than I imagined,” the old woman behind War whispered loudly.

  
Finally, War’s hands came up as well, wrapping tightly around his brother, pressing the older’s body against him, ignoring the humans.   
  
“Death,” he answered, the sound muffled in his brother’s shoulder, “Brother...”

  
  
“Death and War? Are those their names? Or are they titles?”, another one of the old people wanted to know.

“Shh!” another old woman hissed, her hand on her heart as if she could empathize with the reuniting brothers. It wasn’t hard to misinterpret the scene, not with the way War held onto Death and buried his face in his shoulder. Death’s face was hidden behind a mask, but his eyes were closed as he relished in the presence of his most precious sibling.

They parted moments later and Death took in the sight before him, the humans he’d ignored so far. Each of them resonated with his magic and the Nephilim frowned.

“You have been watching me. All of you,” Harvester flew to his hand and swirling purple mist began to rise around him. He was going to reap these old souls, who should have died a long time ago.

 

“We’ve been waiting for you, reaper,” an old man replied, the assembled generation of ancient humans rising to their feet.

  
  
War stepped back. This was part of his brother’s task now, too.   
His bright eyes wandered only quickly over the old people, then landed on his brother and he couldn’t help marvelling at him.   
How his muscles tensed, how easily he wielded the massive scythe as if he had trained throughout the centuries.   
And most of all, his presence.  Feeling his brother back at his side again did  all kinds of things to War, but he held himself back and kept silent.

 

It was almost like  a sect of some sort, with the old folk lining up to face Death’s judgement. It was unanimous consent, despite the young people’s protest. Several made calls to the police as Death swung his scythe and released the souls long fit to return to the well of souls.  It barely took two breaths before only the old lady from before was the last to stand before Death. She reached out to touch his arm, a wrinkled old hand resting on one of the bracers.

“Your brother has waited for you so long, reaper. Don’t make him sad anymore, alright?”

 

Death stared down at this audacious creature, barely old enough to crawl across her own world, presuming to give him what? Advice? And yet, he did not have it in him to argue with her. He gave a mute nod before Harvester took her life.  The only humans left now were the shocked and terrified younger generation who were unwilling to leave their deceased elders behind.

 

Despair rushed from the ground with a joyous neigh besides Death, close enough to butt his head against War’s shoulder as his rider mounted up.   
  
The first police car stopped in front of the graveyard and officers were swarming the graveyard. War called for Ruin, the steed breaking out of the ground much like its brother. The horses, happy to finally be united, nuzzled their heads against each other, but only for a short time.   
  
“Ready, brother?” War asked as the first bullets began flying past him, coming from the special squad the police and army and whatever else there was had sent.   
  
He drew Chaoseater with the ease of training over millennia, before charging forward and cutting down the first cars, drivers included. 

 

Death would have opted to just leave the realm instead of fighting the local law enforcement. But trust War to choose the most violent option available. Despair whinnied as he galloped after Ruin, who’s rider was enjoying the freedom of wielding Chaoseater just a little too much. Bullets bounced off of the pale horse and Horseman as he drew up alongside War.

“Brother, I see you feel the need for subtlety as strongly as ever. But I had something a little less bloodshedding in mind for our reunion.” 

Before them, a portal sprung up, ringed with green glyphs.

  
  
War raised his eyebrows and shook the corpse on Chaoseater off of the blade before he put it back on his back.   
“You had something in mind?”

  
That was new, War had expected his brother to be rather uninterested in celebrating their reunion.  He looked at the portal a little wearily. Centuries on his own had made him suspicious of everything.   
War probably needed to learn to trust his brother that deeply again at first.

 

Death didn’t answer him, Despair galloping through the open portal without any hesitation. He expected his brother’s steed to do the same. On the other side of the portal, vibrant green and gold shimmered and promised a pleasant environment. Death drew Despair to a halt, the rotted horse’s hooves clambering over wood and stone. The Maker’s realm was the rich greens of life itself, bathed in amiable, golden light. Beneath the trunk of an enormous tree, so tall its branches lost themselves in clouds, the rider awaited his brother.

It was time to resolve some unspoken things between the two of them.

  
  
War looked around, frowning a little. His brother had brought him to the Tree Of Life, somewhere in the Maker’s realm, but why?   
Ruin had followed Despair and halted when the other steed came to a halt as well.   
  
Frowning still, War watched his brother dismount and send Despair away. The younger though remained in the saddle. It was rare for his brother to do strange things like this, War had expected him to go straight for the Council or for some quest he had dreamed of during his century-sleep.   
Not here where everything looked peaceful and healthy enough, War almost regretted the fact Ruin’s hooves scorched the ground. Speaking of Ruin, the steed’s firey eyes followed Despair and he shook his head, obviously eager to follow after his brother if his rider would only let him.   
  
“Why are we here?" War wanted to know. 

 

Of course, after his long absence, he could understand War’s weariness. He had not spent a great amount of time tending to his brother’s needs and wishes and sometime during his sleep, he’d given it thought. And come up with a surprising revelation, not just of what he should do for War, but what it meant for himself to do so.  Yes, he’d chosen this peaceful realm for good reason. He awaited War’s dismount, but when it didn’t take place, he sighed and stood besides Ruin, hand on the mighty steed’s nose. Ruin gave his rider’s weariness no ally as he nuzzled the hand and snorted.

“I have thought about a great many things, War. And I have thought of you, entirely too much, or maybe not enough at all. There is a lot to do, the Council to serve, Creation to uphold. But you come first, little brother. I want to speak with you about something you may not even remember.”

  
  
That made the younger nephilim keep silent for a while before he finally moved and dismounted. With a pat on his loyal mount’s neck, he allowed Ruin to go after Despair.   
Something he might not even remember?   
War was pretty sure he remembered everything, but you never knew what interested Death at this very moment. Especially after hundreds of years of sleep.   
  
Before War could open his mouth though and rudely tell his brother to spill what he wanted to speak about, Death turned and with a small gesture of his hand, told his brother to follow him.   
  
Climbing wasn’t really his favourite thing to do, especially not when his brother in front of him moved with the agility of a large predatory cat. So when Death easily seized some stone-wall and regarded him with a gaze from above that made War absolutely sure his brother was raising a challenging eyebrow at him, War growled.   
And spread large, dark wings that looked as if they were made out of ash and simply flew up the cliff, landing next to his brother. They didn’t last long, he was no angel after all, but they were useful for small distances.   
Or show-off, like now.

 

When Death turned around once more, War’s hand was fast enough to grab his brother’s wrist. “No more games, brother. Speak.”

 

Death glanced around at the clearing they were in. Moss covered the ground, interrupted only by patches of grass and the trunks of ancient trees. Ambient light filtered in through the leaves, casting shapes onto his pale skin and making his brother’s armour glint. He allowed War’s hand on his wrist to keep ahold of him as he heaved a sigh. Despite his resolution to tell War here and now, he didn’t know how to start. Words were never a power he invested much into, despite his masterful wielding of them in potentially threatening situations.

But to use them to express what his blackened heart begged for? A gargantuan task.

“When you were younger...much younger,” he began, “you once...seemed convinced, adamant even that you would not be satisfied by being my little brother anymore. I denied you then, knowing it was only a state of your life that demanded such affections. But I have not forgotten your words, as much as I tried to. I have never been anything but a solitary nature as you know, and yet, there is company I seek. Crave, even. And that company is yours, War. You are no longer a child and I trust your words to have the wisdom of your age.” Death paused to move a hand to the edge of his mask, but thought better of removing it at the last moment.

“Do you still...want me, brother?”

  
  
War stared at him. Every word his brother had said had made him stiffen up a little more, had made his eyes go a little wider in disbelief and when he finally asked that question, the younger nephilim did not know what to answer.   
  
Too long had he tried to fight the desire in his head, too long now had he forced himself onwards alone, memories of his brother and longing his only companions for centuries.   
He had forbidden himself fantasies about a situation like this one. Even when the annual time for the nephilim returned, the time in which even the Council allowed them to be free for a while, the time when Fury and Strife were not seen for weeks, War only threw himself more fiercely into battles, wrestled with demons in Hell’s fighting pits and wreaked havoc upon whoever even only dared to think about disturbing the Balance.   
  
He had never wanted anyone except for his brother, just like he had promised. But it cost him immense effort to push said desire away and harden his heart so he would never consider it again.   
  
Having his brother in front of him, looking at him like that, hearing him speak those words...

  
  
War had never been a good liar which was why he went to avoid the topic.   
“Don’t ask me questions you have no desire to know the answer to,” he said, turning away slightly, “What if I wanted you? There is no place for tender touches and sweet words like I once desired in this world, brother! You wished for me to grow up and I swear to you I have grown up and with that I lost my childish ignorance, innocence and desires.”

  
That was a lie. He had not lost them, he knew that they were still there, somehow, locked away behind stone walls the years and experience and numerous disappointments had built around his heart.   
  
He sneered at Death and gave a dismissive noise, “Is that all?”

  
War turned around, ready to leave, ready to deal with the cracks his brother’s words had just inflicted on the stone inside of his chest.

It angered and annoyed him Death was still so very capable of touching him deeply, even after all those years.   
  


He should have been proud of War’s strength. He should appraise his brother’s restraint, the way he’d lost all childish sense of trust and wanton desires. War was exactly how Death had raised him to be. Strong, resolute, immune to temptation. And Death felt his heart crack open, a whining whim growing into impulse he didn’t have the power to suppress.

“It isn’t.”

His hand closed on War’s shoulder, tugging the Nephilim to a stop. He wasn’t ready to let War pass like this, missing the genuine truth Death was trying to convey here.

“Indulge me,” his other hand reached for his mask, taking it off after centuries, long after Creation had forgotten his face beneath the grotesque skull.

“Just this one exchange. Then I will accept your...resolution.” Death drew nearer, a shudder running through his body. It wasn’t pain or discomfort, but nervous anticipation. If War’s words rang true, which he suspected and hoped would not, he would forsake pursuing something deeper with his brother.

 

This time, War didn’t freeze. It was more of an inferno roaring through his entire body, induced by both his brother’s hand on his shoulder and the visible shudder that ran through the older’s body.   
They were close by now, gravitating towards each other, staring at each other, forever lost in the other’s eyes.   
He had not seen his brother’s face for so long now and yet it was probably the most familiar memory War had. It forced feelings to come forth he didn’t know he was still in possession of.   
  
It was just this one time Death had asked him for.   
And though War knew his heart would be screaming for more for days and weeks after this, he pushed back his hood, nodding slightly.   
  
“Just this once,” he heard himself say and at the same time cursed himself for agreeing. Though he really didn’t have time for cursing himself for long. As if they were two electric magnets that had just been switched on, they molded together, pressing as much of the other’s body against their own as possible with all the armour they wore, lips connected in a kiss that with all its roughness and desperate desire couldn’t really be titled ‘kiss’ anymore.

 

But it was a kiss nonetheless. Neither of them knew how to twist such acts into softness, into expressing what they felt for one another. Neither of them knew what such affection should feel like, so it couldn’t be missed. 

Death ran his hands over War’s hair and back, fingers tangling into the long, silver tresses and finding a good hold as he pulled him closer. There was no more space between them, despite the unwieldy armour getting in the way. It didn’t matter. Death could taste War’s desperation and knew his earlier words had been a bitter lie. One to protect War from rejection, the only response he’d known from Death in all this time pertaining to this matter.

But he would not find it today. Death had no more patience for his cold indifference, no more strength to deny himself this pleasure. War was already in his heart, there was no reason to keep him from holding it in his palm entirely. Not anymore.

 

Death tried to soften the harsh exchange of biting by force, holding War’s head steady as his tongue explored a hot mouth and enticed a familiar tongue into less of a battle, and more of a dance. Death would pour everything he never said into this, because War needed to feel if not hear it.   
  
War grew calmer as his brother started to guide him like that, his hands stopped roaming and rested on the older’s sides, fingertips dancing over Death’s spine.   
He had closed his eyes by now and was fully indulging into the kiss, allowing his brother to hold him steady and calm him down.   
Once Death had noticed his brother’s reaction, War felt how he let go off his hair and instead let long, cool fingers cup the nape of his neck, touching skin that bore scars even there. He didn’t even hear himself moan into the kiss, he only picked up on the  _ soft chuckle _ his brother gave which gave him goosebumps all over.    
  
In return, War’s hands busied themselves quickly with the armoured gloves he was wearing and he took them off, fingers now entirely free to trace the contours up his brother’s spine. Which, in turn made Death freeze and hold his breath ever so slightly and War chuckled, breaking the kiss, but never their embrace.

 

It was an entirely new horizon for both of them, as Death never participated in the heat of the Nephilim either. Never before had he any interest in coupling and alike. But that all changed, here, with War warm beneath his fingers and breathing heavily against his lips. War’s fingers were delicate, much more so than could be believed of such a powerful, violent creature, as they ghosted over his spine, the stark ridges that nothing in creation would think of as pleasing. But War was oblivious to the nature of his corpse-like state, no, he even seemed to like it. Their flesh, where it brushed together, was a motley mix of healthy pink and deathly grey. Somehow, the contrast only heightened their needs.

There was a buckle beneath Death’s fingers and he undid it without hesitation. War would be his, if only once, but entirely.

 

“Would you object to an extension, War?” he purred the name, felt it caress his tongue and lips as it left his throat.

  
  
“Never,” War replied, voice even deeper than usual, filled with desire now, “Would you?”

  
Undressing each other was a task that would have taken them minutes even if they did it fast, but this way, they rather made an art of revealing parts of each other’s body ever so slowly, appreciating every new piece of skin in sight before turning to the next fragment of cloth or armour.   
  
While they were still undressing each other, the heat between them brought War into a state of arousal he had not known before. It wasn’t only physically affecting him, but his mind and heart as well, leaving him in a haze that brought up a mix of emotions he held for his dear brother. It turned him into a complete mess and a part of him was shocked at how much he liked it being raw and naked, pressed close to his brother.    
  
“Back then, I meant it,” he said, voice honest, “I never stopped desiring you. Not during all that time. I never wanted someone else.” 

 

“I suspected as much,” Death replied, the knowing edge in his voice softened to nothing more than a mildly arrogant tone, as if he would always know his younger brother’s mind the best. It had been a lie, just as he predicted. War had never stopped wanting this.  They were bared to each other now, body and soul and heart, nothing existing beyond the clearing for this moment.

“I did not know I felt about it...It has taken me a long time to come to terms with, War,” his hand trailed lower now, thin fingers, despite their inexperience, finding War’s arousal and ghosting over the flesh before taking ahold of it, as steadily as he’d wield any weapon. And yet this was by far more precious and delicacy, a rare skill in a Nephilim, was of the utmost importance.

“And it is not a lie what I tell you now. I can...no longer bear to conceal it, War. I have never wanted anything or anyone this way, except for you.”

  
  
The younger’s fingers on his brother’s back dug into bloodless skin as Death’s hand enclosed around him.   
War already struggled to fight down the noises that wanted to escape him, too long had he wished for this and too long had been the nights during his youth where he had taken care of himself, ever dreaming of his brother doing exactly this and so much more to him.   
  
_ What do we make of this now?   _ War wanted to ask, but he was intelligent enough, even in his current state to stay silent on this matter.   
They could not make anything out of it, except for this one time now and War was ready to ignore the question regarding the future and indulge in the present.   
The very pleasant present indeed, since his brother’s hand, despite his lack of training on this matter, did its work in a way that had his knees grow weaker with the second.    
  
“Brother,” he said, or rather, wanted to just  _ say _ but instead _ moaned _ , “This... this is not how.. I want this to end...”   
At least his ears had the decency to turn a little red as War admitted to how close this all had brought him already. 

 

Death’s hand continued to linger on him, with no mind to stop what it was doing. Death was caught somewhere between wishing to hold his brother close and concede the truth to him, or to carry on and watch him be undone. Both could be achieved simultaneously, he decided.

“Oh, little brother,” his mouth gravitated by War’s ear, sucking the tip between his teeth and worrying the reddened skin with a nibble, “you’re mistaken, again.” 

His hand sped up, offered more friction, suspecting War to be a candidate for rougher treatment.

“This doesn’t have to be the only time, do you understand?”

 

Death was offering him...acceptance, a new level to their intimacy, no longer bound by the tender and yet firm borders of brotherhood.   
  
War, not capable of retreating to his emotionless state that allowed him to deny his brother and himself such pleasures, the state he had used for centuries now to protect himself, only gave a moan of his brother’s name at that.   
Burying his face  in the older’s neck and clinging to him with a force that could have crushed a tree, rash and brazen, infamous and proud War reached the peak of his passion, spilling himself over his own and brother’s skin.   
It really had not taken that much to get him there, he should later realize with embarrassment, but for now, he was dwelling in the bliss his brother had readily offered him, breathing heavily for a few seconds before he yanked Death into another kiss.   
  
War’s hands wandered down his brother’s trained body until he got firm hold of the older’s behind, squeezing the flesh a tiny bit for his own pleasure before pressing Death against him. He could very well feel now how the situation did not leave his usually so calm brother cold and it let him grin ever so slightly.   
“I notice you even possess hard evidence for your words, brother,” War said against the older’s lips, pressing him a little closer, even moving him a little, granting Death’s trapped arousal delicious friction against his abdomen.   
“Do you want me to help you with that?”

 

Death’s reaction to War’s little rubbing sequence was quite spectacular, really. The pale rider panted against War’s ear, fingers clenching powerful shoulders as his hips moved forward, begged for friction without much shame. It felt so damn good, hellishly good to feel War’s hot skin offer him resistance, and yet it was by far not enough.

“Lay down,” he ordered, voice deep and lacking his usual composure. Lust was taking the eldest Horseman fast and War would best accommodate his wishes if he valued their continued intimacies.

Once the younger did as Death asked, the elder lowered himself to almost straddle War. He saw no shame in the positioning at all, obeying only his body’s much denied needs. Braced on his arms left and right of War’s head, Death scooted back until their shafts pressed together, his as hard as steel and War’s reawakening rapidly.

He gave it a first testing shift of the hips and pleasure sent a shiver down his spine to pool in his midsection. Oh yes, this was definitely a good idea.

Strands of black hair dripped into his vision as it fell to envelop his face. Death allowed his eyes to close and for War to be rewarded with a soft groan from his brother’s lips.

  
His brother’s voice alone, sounding so off and yet so arousingly out of composure, would have been enough to have War grow hard once more, but no, knowing Death it was never enough to just do something like that, no, he always had to make an art out of it. Killing, sarcasm, killing, crafting, riding, did I mention killing?   
Death always had to exaggerate and this was the pinnacle of it. War gawked at him for the moment of stupidity it took him to process what was happening and that yes, his brother had just groaned quietly.   
  
He regained what little the prior events had left of his composure and War’s hands once again found Death’s muscular behind, squeezing him more harshly now. Before Death could complain, War pressed him down and against him, at the same time pressing his hips up and arching his back beautifully as he moaned with far less restriction than his brother.

War was never one to be outdone, not even by Death. His moaning almost echoed around the clearing, his voice unbridling even more of that lust penned up inside of Death. The friction was the most pleasant heat Death had ever known. They pressed together, again and again, harder each time as if they might find a new way to mingle their flesh together. War’s hands squeezed rhythmically at his behind, demanding and yet satisfied to be allowed such contact.

Death unhitched one hand from the ground, growing impatient with the endless back and forth sway of their hips. He wrapped it tightly around the base of his own shaft and War’s thick girth before sliding it up and down. Neither of them were badly endowed, so it was an arduous task, but the sensation was more than worth it.

Death bowed closer, forehead resting on War’s broad chest and collarbone as his breathing sped up, racing ahead of the steady rhythm between their bodies.

 

“ _War_...” this time, it was a moan that spilled free of his pale lips.  
  
The younger’s ears tingled with the sound of his brother moaning his name and it brought him one huge step closer to finding his relief once more. This time though, he held himself back, wanting his brother to enjoy their union thoroughly as well. He would not be the one to end this prematurely.  
  
“Brother...” War too moved one hand from his brother’s perfect, pale cheeks and let it wander up his spine, drawing another soft moan from him which had the younger grin for a second before his hand slid into greasy, black hair, caressing the older’s head softly.   
“Are you quite enjoying yourself?” he couldn’t help teasing a little, surprised at the way his brother too slowly, but entirely lost his composure. War’s hand on the older’s behind grabbed pale flesh more tightly as he whispered, “Because I am...”

 

“As always, you talk too much,” Death relayed through clenched teeth, probably in a stale effort to keep himself from moaning again. His flesh was stiff and aching, begging him to forget his damned pride and just come undone onto War’s skin, untouched before this moment.

In order to get War’s mouth shut so he could enjoy himself, Death heaved his face up once more, sealing his lips over his brother’s. The kiss was lazy and languid, a real taste of every pleasure War’s mouth had to offer.

The hand on his behind was demanding with the insolence typical of his little brother and Death had no mind to remove it from him. His own fingers clenched a little harder, almost pinching at the taut skin of War’s shaft, feeling it tremble beneath his touch.    
  
Whatever retort he had to his brother’s hissed words, he couldn’t voice it.   
War made a noise that was a mixture of pain and pleasure, rocked his hips up in the desperate notion the get more from where that came from and whined lowly in his throat when Death denied him the pleasure.   
  
Of course, he would never once admit to having begged for more with a whine,  _ War _ didn’t  _ whine _ .   
But then again, Death knew everything about him, there was no hiding in front of his brother which made him all the more sure the last Firstborn was the only one for him and had always been, as cheesy as that sounded.   
  
From then on, it didn’t exactly take all that long. At some point, really, it was only a few minutes after, but to War it felt like  _ eternity _ , Death did that almost-pinching thing again what brought War another glorious orgasm through which he moaned his brother’s name loudly.

 

This time, Death did not deny his brother the pleasure of hearing him reach his climax. This time, he buried his face against War’s head, letting his little brother have a hypothetical front row seat as he moaned into his ear, a soft curse in a language so ancient War would never have heard of it before as his hips undulated a few more times. The liquid seeping from him was proof of his pleasure as it mingled with War’s on his stomach. 

Slowly, Death’s hand detached from War’s spent length, giving it a few more, affectionate strokes. Death himself pressed War’s head to his lips in a gesture of extreme closeness.

 

Words should have spilled forth from his lips, promises of being together, united now as one and inseparable. Instead, Death gave a soft hum and smiled as he rested for just a few moments longer.   
  
War had greatly revelled in the display of his brother’s climaxing, the words he said resounding in his ears and giving him chills even in his spent state, but he also enjoyed the care with which Death handled him after.   
  


For a while, they just laid there, still pressed against each other, breath steadily coming more slowly to them.   
  
Then, Death sat up and so did the younger Nephilim. Both of his eyebrows wandered up as he regarded his stomach.   
He didn’t have to ask, the question was written into his face:  _ Blue? _

Death did not pause to address his brother’s concern. For now, he felt sated, though he was very sure this would not be the last time they...coupled like that. With some indignation, he got to dressing himself. Somewhere above them, a crow croaked a heinous bout of laughter.

 

And no, he would not be addressing the colour of his release with his brother. He only handed War some rags that would be thrown away to clean the mess off of him.

  
“We need to...get going. I must see the Council.”   
  
War scrunched his nose and wiped himself clean before he too got up and began strapping his clothes and armour back to his body. Before his brother could leave the little clearing through, War dashed forward, grabbed him from behind, pressing him closely against him. One hand around his brother’s waist, the other pushing away long black hair, and then the younger nephilim’s lips connected to the older’s neck, nibbling softly and in a very playful manner at his spine.   
  
Before Death could say anything though, War let go off him and nodded, expression stern as usual, “Let’s see the Council.”   



End file.
